The Paintings
by Janefaerie
Summary: An interpretation of Jane Eyre using her paintings as the tool of insight into the story.
1. Chapter 1 The Seascape

--A violent, dark sea swirled and misted around the small water craft. Waves, giants of deep magnificence, loomed over head, the frothy whites of the crests peeking over the edges, teasing the frail boat with its power. The rumble of thunder rolled over the open waters, and brief but brilliant flashes of lighting illuminated the shadows of the storm. It was no time to be at sea. Death and danger rocked the boat in a chilling kind of lullaby, the power of the water and wind capable of overturning it at any moment.

Cowering inside the tiny vessel, a small woman covered her head with her hands, weeping with despair into the wet and wild winds. All had been lost; her companions swept overboard by the waves and gales. She alone sat amongst the gnarled ropes and shredded sails. Alone at sea. Barren and forsaken. But soon her sobs subsided, and she parted her wet, dark locks from her face. Raising her head, the woman gazed in a childlike wonder at the chaos that surrounded her. Wind, rain, water, all seemed to join into one great mass of movement—of dance. The storm was wild with a dark rage. And the woman understood its displeasure. She anticipated her own role as the final sacrifice to appease the sea's anger.

Raising her arms, almost in an embrace, the woman stood and faced the carousing waves, cried out:

"Take me! Take me! You took him! Take me to your depths!"

At first the sea did not reply. It only continued its riotous dance. Then, the woman felt a shift in the water underneath her small boat, a gathering of waves. Glancing around her, she saw the monstrous wall of water looming near, coming ever closer. With a despairing smile, she sighed and wrapped her arms around the thin mast, ready and willing. And the water came. Enveloping her in its cold chaos, the sea overturned the boat and swallowed the woman into the deep waters.

Hours of rage and terrible storm continued. But at last, the sea did grow more calm, and a few meek rays of sunlight began to reach through the black clouds to cast faint jewels on the dark water. An seabird, tired from the flight through the storm, circled and sought a place on the waters to float upon the erratic waves. Then his keen eye caught a glimmer, a flash of light. He flew closer and saw a long piece of wood ambling easily on the surface of the water, a perfect place for him to rest his wings. Alighting daintly, he shook his feathers and pruning under his wing. Looking along the log, the seabird noticed the glimmer once more and, fascinated, peered at the object. A jeweled bracelet hung on a pale white wrist and hand that gripped the log tightly. Curious, the seabird tapped the hand with his webbed foot, then swalked, ever interested in the bright jewels. The hand did not move. He poked the hand with his beak. Nothing. Bolder now, he gripped the bracelet with his jaw and pulled. Surprising to him, it came off quite easily. With his effort, the hand had gone limp and the jewelry has slipped off. Elated he flapped his broad wings. He did not notice the floating corpse that hovered just below the surface, pale and green like a mermaid.--

"Miss Eyre!"

Miss Eyre, who had been bending over her painting and mixing her colors, started up straight and looked to the speaker.

"Miss Eyre."

"Ah. Yes Miss Miller."

"What! You do dawdle. Did you not hear the dinner bell? We are assembled in the long hall. Will you keep us all waiting?"

"I am sorry. I did not hear the bell. I was preoccupied."

"Well, I can see that. Painting again. Is that _all_ ye shall do over this summer vacation? _Paint_? I should think your time spent better elsewhere."

Miss Eyre said nothing. Instead, she washed and wiped her thin brush that had been filled with a dark blue tint, and smoothed her hair from any wisps that had fallen out of order from her ministrations. While Miss Eyre tidied her table, Miss Miller came a step closer and peered at the result of the artist's day-long work. Wrinkling her nose, she snorted,

"Do you take delight in painting corpses, Miss Eyre? What is this horrid scene? Where did you see such a thing?"

At first, Miss Eyre's eyes flashed with anger, her work abused. But in a moment, a cool resignation overcame her face and she answered demurely.

"I have never seen such a scene as this except in my mind's eye. And no, I do not take delight in painting a corpse, but rather I fathom the depths of its meaning. I…"

Miss Miller stepped back and raised an eye brow.

"I like you well enough Miss Eyre," She retorted. "But I must say, if ever Mr. Brocklehurst saw this or any of your other paintings—that iceberg with the dark eyes and the star with wind and the others—then mark my word, he'd take away your painting tools at once."

The young and small artist said nothing, a stoic look on her features.

Miss Miller continued, "And, even though I hate to say it, your paintings are no great work of art either. I mean perhaps if you painted flowers, or sheep, or something pastoral. But this" She gestured to the watercolor on the table.

Miss Eyre looked to the floor for a moment, tempted to retaliate with fury. Raising her eyes with a piercing and ironical fire, she gently said,

"Have _you_ been to any great art galleries yourself Miss Miller?"

In a distracted air, Miss Miller did not notice the fierce gaze of the little woman in grey. Rather, she snorted at Miss Eyre's rejoinder, annoyed at being found out for a pretender:

"Come! Let's to dinner."

Leading the way, Miss Miller flung herself out and down the stairs towards the long room. But Miss Eyre hung back a moment, gazing at her painting, then quietly following her companion down below.

--A roaring fire raged in the hearth of the great house, attempting with its red light to cast out the shadows of the drawing room. A scene, at once stringent and amusing, was at play. Furthest from the fire sat an elderly lady, donned with abundances of grey ribbons and lace, thin spectacles on her nose, and a pile of yarn in her hands and lap. She was content to be so: to be near the younger folk but not too near the heat of the fire. She preferred the shade closer to the windows, with a small candle at hand to guide her eyesight. Nearby, a little dark haired girl sat on the carpet, fidgeting but trying ever so hard to be still. Her eyes were watching the fire and its orange and scarlet flames, entertained for the moment by the coquettish ballet of light. To her left, steeped in shadow, despite the bright fire, sat a middle-aged man, his face grim and nearly grotesque in the uncertain light. His hands, long and deft, were poised, fingertips together, in front of his mouth, his elbows resting on the arms of his monstrous burgundy chair. A Victorian hero's look he did not have. No. His was of an older, darker sect. The vivid sharpness of his dark eyes gave both danger and depth to his character. Doubtless, he was a passionate man—one capable of terrible and magnificent things. But sitting in silence there, he looked impenetrable—hard and bitter.

The man opened his mouth and spoke, his voice abrupt.

"Adele there" gesturing to the child on the floor, "showed me some sketches today. She _said_ they were yours. Now you must reproduce them to show if it be true or falsehood."

His words, quick and authoritative, were directed to his counterpart at the hearth: a young girl seated across from him. Her face was plain, in every way. No feature stood out as extra- ordinary or even vaguely pretty in the garish firelight. Her garb was almost puritan—a black stuff dress with a stiff white collar—and hair plaited simply, pinned close to her head. Rising from her seat without a word, but with a sharp glance to little Adele, who was smirking on the carpet, glad to be noticed, the woman obeyed the man's abrupt request. Retrieving her portfolio from the library, the young woman returned and offered it to the man who had leaned forward in his chair, drawing a table near.

As he fingered through the sketches and watercolors, handing off to the curious child and elder lady what he deemed as superfluous pieces, the young woman watched his face. It betrayed no emotion or response to her works. That was until he pulled from the pile her three Lowood paintings.

"Now these" he grumbled, sending Adele and the old lady away with the rest of the portfolio, "these are peculiar."

Miss Eyre smiled slightly in remembrance, "I knew someone once who told me I should not paint such things."

The man glanced up and caught her expression: "And did you heed the advice afterwards?"

Glancing down to the watercolor seascape,—the scene of a seabird clutching in its beak a jeweled circlet over top of a floating corpse on a stormy sea—Miss Eyre paused.

"No. No, I did not."

"I see that you do not have enough of the artist's skill and science. But, the drawings are for a school girl such as you, are very peculiar."

"I was always deemed peculiar, sir."

"Indeed, I should say so." He looked up to read her face. "Were you happy when you painted these?"

Miss Eyre recalled the rush of water, the chilling gale, the passionate cry, the exquisitely terrible loss. She had felt such things—within.

"Yes. Yes, I was fully occupied. I stayed with them from morning till night. To paint those pictures has been the most acute pleasure of my existence."

That night, when the house had gone to sleep, two souls were stirring still. Within the depths of dreams, both beings envisioned the plight of a boat lost at sea, tossed about by vicious waters. And that night, both dreamers saw in the midst of the storm for a moment above the crest of a wave, a fellow boat, nearby, within reach, with a fellow figure huddling against the rain and wind.--


	2. Chapter 2 Thornfield

She had not painted in months. Her time with the child had demanded most of her energies; and since Adele did not boast of great creative or artistic bents beyond coquetry, Miss Eyre withheld her hand from her palette and kept her colors and brushes locked away in her desk. Moreover, the master of the house had been home for quite some time, causing a general nervous activity in the old house. Noise and movement came more frequently. Voices echoed through the long corridors that had formally been tranquil and silent. And more importantly, particular attention was given to the Master's every request: his presence caused Thornfield's inmates to rouse to action with vigor. For Miss Eyre, the revival of the silent house proved to be a welcome change to the dreary and grey habits of the winter. The place seemed less mournful, less haunting with a master in it.

But Jane sensed spring's imminence, and it roused her desire to roam the grounds and fields surrounding Thornfield. She determined to try Adele's skill at watercolors and to allow herself some creative release that had been formally subdued.

"Mademoiselle Eyre," Adele called to her teacher from the schoolroom door, her frilled bonnet teetering on her head and new brushes clutched in her round little hands. "Must we go to the garden today? I do not wish to paint. I do not know how. I shall hate it."

Jane, already dressed in her grey cloak and black bonnet—an austere vision—gathered together the last remnants of her tools, easels, and paper.

"Adele, you have never tried painting. How do you know if you will hate it or not?" Jane laughed shuffling her reluctant pupil down the corridor to the staircase.

"I _shall_ hate it" Snorted Adele. "I shall not be good at it."

"You will never know for sure unless we go outside and make an attempt. Come."

They settled on situating themselves within easy walking distance of the old hall since Adele swore she would not stray too far in case her guardian should call for her. Seating Adele underneath a monstrous chestnut tree with pencil and paper in hand, Jane directed her pupil on the basics of preliminarily sketching their view of Thornfield. But soon, she let Adele work in silence. Pulling forth her own paper, Jane joined Adele under the budding chestnut tree, creating her own delicate representation of the view before her.

From where they sat, clusters of trees and shrubs gently guided their eyes down the subtle slope towards the battlements of the old hall. Leaves were just beginning to show, a faint tinge of green in an otherwise grey and brown landscape. Branches twisted in sharp contrast to the gothic sterility of Thornfield's structure. This spring vision of the hall was lovely—in a barren way. The hall looked cold and bitter in the crisp wind of the morning; nearly sinister. But the fresh hope brought on by the budding trees softened the severity. In Jane's eye, the hall was shifting its shape—becoming in spirit more yielding, warm, and gentle.

For a long while, teacher and pupil sat in silence, their fingers actively working first the drawing tools and then later brushes and paint. Jane relished this time—to be so still and yet so active, an inward exercise. Again and again, her eye rose and fell as she attempted to catch the right tint and shade with her colors. But then, a movement caught her eye—a movement in one of the upper windows. For a moment, Jane paused. There was no one who stayed in the upper floor: only Grace Poole. She watched carefully, her eye not leaving the window where she had seen a flash of movement. Stillness, only shadow. Nothing.

--Did I…was I dreaming, she pondered inwardly.

Her hands were poised in mid air, the brush fresh with a grey shade of paint. Stillness, nothing but shadow.

--Grace Poole, the hollow laughter, in the night, Mrs. Fairfax surely does not say all she knows.

Suddenly, as Jane watched, a hand violently slammed up against the pane of the window, a large, pale hand, white against the darkness of the glass. For a moment, it froze there, the fingers spread wide; then it began to hit the window pane, almost in effort as to break the thick glass. Faster and faster, the hand pound against the window.

_--Let me out! Let me out! Aunt Reed please! I beg you! Please!_

Bang—bang—bang—bang.

Transfixed, Jane watched, white with a horror of memory.

--_Let me out_ _please! Bessie! The ghost! Unjust! Unjust!_

"Monsieur Rochester!" cried Adele. Dropping her palette to the ground, the child rushed in front of her teacher to a wooded grove to their left. Jane started. Adele scampered, giddy with joy, to her guardian who brushed off her welcome but advanced to view their work.

"I see you've once more taken up your keenest pleasure Miss Eyre." He smiled, a passing expression that softened his harsh features. But Jane did not heed his remark immediately. She glanced up to the windows of the upper floor. The hand was gone. No glass broken. Nothing. Only the dark inky glass reflected back the sky's steel shade. A doubt, a fear that had been long silent in her mind flew up before Jane. A mystery.

"Yes sir" she replied distractedly.

He gave a brief laugh and leaned close to view first Adele's wet watercolor work then Jane's. Lowering her eyes, confused at her own vision, Jane attempted to gather her thoughts.

"Sir," she asked as he came to look at her painting in progress. "I wonder…" her voice trailed off when she saw his expression.

His eyes were fixed on her meager representation of Thornfield, a troubled, disturbed look on his brow. Thoughts, nearly visible, came from his mouth in uncertain words.

"Miss Eyre, what is this?" He pointed to the upper right corner of the painting.

Jane looked to where he gestured. She had drawn the upper windows of the hall, and in the shadows of her representation, her brush had slipped to smudge the shape of a hand on one of the panes. Her eyes grew wide. Her voice escaped her.

"Sir, I saw, I…" she began.

He started away from her side, his hand coming to his mouth in concern. Pacing a short distance from them, he turned back and spoke, a grim, desperate look crossing his features,

"Miss Eyre, when you and your pupil are finished your lessons today, I should like you to come to my study and read to me. I shall have need of company before the day is out."

"Yes sir. I should be glad to"

Turning with haste, he departed the way he had come. Adele called out to him in vain, asking him to stay with her.

"Monsieur! Painting is good! It is…we might together... mon cheri…Monsieur Rochester!"

He had gone.

--

"Miss Eyre" his head leaning upon his folded arms at the desk.

"Yes, Mr. Rochester"

"Choose any book from my shelves to be read. Then come and sit by me, here."

"Yes, sir"

"Thank you… _Jane_." He raises his head.

--

Dreams of fire came at night: of blood, of horror, and of spirits.

_Aunt Reed! Let me Out! _

_Thick and potent were her midnight thoughts, transfigured in her dreams. She ran down a long dark hallway, the footsteps of the Reeds close. The shadows were growing, expanding, enclosing. A red flame of material fell in her path. She paused in the moonlight. _

A soft scratching stirred Jane from her attempts at sleep. She opened her eyes and looked over to her door, suddenly awake. The knob was moving, rattling. Laying still, she listened and watched. But the door did not open. Rather, a low murmer rumbled to her ears and a swish of fabric issued from the dark. Nerves alight, she flew to her door.

"Who is there?" She called.

A low voice answered back in a strange sing-song voice.

"No-one"

Footsteps, running away down the corridor.

Jane sighed, "ah Adele."

She reasoned it must be the child.

In a moment, she flung open the door and stepped into the corridor. The moonlight, silver and bright, came in through the distant window at the end of the corridor, illuminating the hallway. There, before the glass, indiscernible at a distance, stood a figure in a white nightgown. It watched Jane as she came from her room to pursue it. Then in a flash of white it disappeared down another corridor.

"Adele?" Jane called as mutedly as she could.

"No-body" a voice answered faintly, growing distant.

She followed the retreating footsteps, moving through the night, catching glimpses of the white nightgown around a corner. A deep guttural laugh rang down the hall. Jane felt her pulse quicken and fingers grow cold. Deep into the darkness, Jane followed the figure. At times, it came very near—a low breathing in the shadows. But Jane could never see it fully.

The hall grew hazy with a strange fog—smoke.

"Grace?" Jane dared to ask, growing cold in the dark.

"Grace" the voice hissed and the footsteps disappeared into the night.

The smell of smoke caught Jane's attention. She glanced to her left. A door was ajar and smoke tufted from inside. Frenzy seized her limbs; she flung open the door and viewed the blaze of bed curtains inside. Water—Water—water. She doused the flames. The sleeper slept on, dumb by the smoke. Alone in the surrounding night, she put them out, splashing water from the basins. At length, the blaze quenched, Jane glanced at the sleeper—the master of the house. In anger, she took the last bit of water from the jug in her hands and threw it at his face to rouse him. He must know of the mystery. He must find it out. He must.

The splash of cold water easily woke him:

"Is there a flood?" he coughed rubbing his eyes in the moonlight.

"No, sir, a fire" She replied.

--

"Thank you …_Jane._" He raises his head from the desk to look at her—a grimace on his face, but a gentleness in his voice.

At once confused and concerned, Jane sits close by and begins to read the selected text.

"Jane." He interrupts.

"Yes"

"Do you think that sinners can find redemption?" He is earnest.

"Yes, sir"

"Even such as I?"

"Yes, sir" she smiles, compassion rising, and he catches the passing look and keeps his eyes on her. For a moment, he merely watches her—silent. Then, he gives a weak smile.

"Forgive me then, for my treatment of you and Adele earlier today. Your painting, I must say, reminded me of old wounds and memories that I should rather forget—ghosts of the past, Jane."

She nodded, wishing to unburden his heart, to ease the sorrow in his eyes.

"Do you have ghosts that haunt you, Jane?"

Her eyes widened at the question.

_A flood of red curtains, surrounding her small figure. The key turns in the lock. No escape. A cruel laugh retreating. The red room. _

Pale, with thoughts of rage, hurt, and confusion filling her mind, Jane felt her lips struggle to answer: in a weak voice, with eyes cast down, but fire welling up from within, she replied.

"Yes, sir."


	3. Chapter 3 Blanche

With feverish fingers, Jane grappled in her pocket for the key to her desk drawer. Her hand shaking, she thrust the key into the rusting lock and gave a swift turn. The drawer jerked open, as if waiting for her to come. Inside, she rifled through her brushes, paints and pencils, searching for the right tools.

--I must…. Where… the smaller one of these…ah yes this brush I will use...I ...I must freeze this feeling in my heart.

Finding the instruments she wanted, Jane snatched a harsh piece of vellum from her portfolio and sat down in front of her mirror to sketch. She had selected a dark charcoal. For a moment, her hand shook above the blank paper.

--Be still, Jane Eyre.

She raised her eyes to her own reflection, determined to represent in a perfect likeness what she saw. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

--

"You have saved my life" he spoke quiet and low, the moonlight falling on his face. "I have pleasure in owing you so great a debt."

Jane felt suddenly chilled in the dark, the water on the floor cooling her feet. Damp from the water, her nightgown gave her no warmth, and even though she had the master's cloak around her shoulders, she could not help but shiver. He took a step near to her, eyes glowing. Was it the moon?

She started "There is no debt."

He smiled and gave a soft laugh, stepping closer.

"I was glad that I…happened to be awake sir." Her voice seemed to tremble.

"Yes. As am I." He gazed at her, a small silvery fairy in the dark. "At least shake hands."

He extended his hand to her. At first, she was relieved by his friendly gesture, and gladly put her hand in his, meaning to give it a firm shake. But as her palm met his, his other hand quickly shot out from his side and captured hers in both his own. Silence pervaded for a moment. Gently, ever so gently, he pulled her hand towards him, forcing the space between them to shrink.

"I knew you would do me good, Jane. I saw it your eyes, when I first beheld you that night in Haylane."

--

"Enough!" Jane cried aloud. _Enough. _Reason attempted to hold sway. Cold reason, bitter reality. She put her hand to work on the paper, tracing softly with the charcoal, a face—thin, unbalanced, and plain. As she worked, bending over her desk in the soft evening light, she muttered aloud to herself in quiet intonations—gentle rebukes.

"You think he cares for you?...What a fool you have been? An utter fool…How dare you...Absurd blind girl…You must be mad Jane Eyre to think, to foster such dreams in your heart…Look at yourself…Look."

She looked. Tears were welling up in her eyes.

"Yes, you _fool_ Jane Eyre" her voice cracked with emotion as she struggled to keep her face tranquil. "No one can love you."

A tear fell from her eye and stained the paper below.

--

Rochester dared to take a small step closer.

"Your eyes…Their expression..." He gathered his senses, noticing Jane's trembling shoulder's and wide eyes. "They struck delight to my innermost heart."

Jane cast her gaze down to her hand, trapped in his. Her heart flooded with emotion and a foreign sensation. What was it? She hardly knew.

"My cherished preserver…" He bent his head to catch her eye.

She raised her gaze to his; he was very near, watching her expression, reading her face.

"Goodnight" he whispered.

Speechless, Jane tried to remove her hand, but his fingers held it tighter as she moved to withdraw.

"Ah…Goodnight sir…Again I am glad I happened to be awake."

"_Will _you go?" His voice deep and strange.

"I…I am cold sir."

"Ah…yes, we stand in a pool of water. Well, go then Jane."

Again, she tried to remove her hand. Now, she felt a panic rising in her throat. His eyes were so vivid and close. How could she bear it, so near to him?

"Sir, I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax."

Her hand was dropt silently to her side.

"Well" His voice adopted a slightly sardonic tone. "Leave me then."

She turned and fled, his cloak still on her shoulders.

At her door, she realized her blunder. For a moment, she held the material in her hands, fondly but cautiously. Then, she turned and went back the way she had come through the corridor.

"I will lay it at his door," she resolved quietly.

--

For a fortnight, Jane had labored not only on her self-portrait, but also on another painting. Another portrait. She had selected a sheet of her finest papers and chosen the best of her paints and colors to give her vision life and breath. Carefully, she had traced out the features of a face, lovely, proportional, and dramatic, and then begun the slow process of filling her drawing with color. An exquisite ivory for the flawless skin—a vivid rouge for the full smiling lips—a deep violet for the large beautiful eyes—a rich black for the luscious curls that flowed over her head and shoulders. Jane wielded her talent as best she could to create a creature of dreams and a vision of beauty. Rich turquoise gems crowned the head of the woman in the portrait; deep purple silk hung on her shoulders and fitted close to her bust. There was no need to paint a neck chain or a golden rose for the purity and beauty of the woman overturned any addition of diamonds or jewels.

Every evening, Jane retired to her room, locked her door, and sat before this painting, taking a morbid pleasure in her own self affliction. At length, after days of her labors, she sat back from the magnificent lady's portrait and reached for her own personal sketch that lay near by. Placing them side by side, she stared for a whole hour as the sun set, meticulously, mercilessly comparing.

--There, see. Look at the difference.

Her soul quieted. In the twilight of the evening, her heart began to wither with despair. The difference between the figures was stunning. With a sigh, Jane took a sharp piece of lead, and underneath the portrait of the beautiful woman wrote:

"Blanche."

--

As silently as she could, Jane crept back to the master's door to lay his cloak over the threshold. The house was still. No ghost haunted the halls now. No mystery, only exquisite moonlight, and the distant call of a nightingale outside. Quickly, she stole up to his door, still slightly ajar. In haste, she laid the cloak on the gallery floor and ran back down the corridor to her own room.

She did not see that door open and a man, weary and pale, watch her silent escape into the night. Nor did she see how he gently gathered together the cloak on the floor into his arms, embracing it fondly to his heart. She did not hear his tortured sigh. And she never saw how he kissed each fraction of the material that had touched her shoulders or been brushed by her hand. In the deep night, no one heard the gentle whisper from his lips:

"Jane, Jane, Jane."


	4. Chapter 4 The Gardens of the Moon

In the lovely twilight, the gardens of Thornfield adopted a mystical, almost faerie-like, ethos. Trees, rather than appearing sharp and grey, emanated a deep green with their leafs and bark. The flowers, coming into full bloom, bent low to the moist earth, heavy with evening dew. In that purple haze, the moon, just rising, cast her gaze over the grounds; the garden glimmered with light and beauty, the perfumes of nature rising to meet the lunar queen of night.

A shadowy figure wandered amongst the thick trees, almost as if to hide from the growing silver light. Aimless in her walk, the figure, Jane, dressed in a deep grey, blended seamlessly into the landscape around her. In the deepening dark, she moved slowly with a fluid motion, moving from shadow to shadow, silent. In the lavender twilight, there seemed to be no distinction between the woman and the garden. She melded with its reclusive nature and sought sanctuary in its depths.

Her face, though shrouded with shadow, was occasionally illuminated by moonlight. Troubled thoughts clouded her eyes. In a quiet voice, she whispered to herself

"Why should he fear him so? What is this secret? Who is this Mr. Mason?"

With frustrated sigh, Jane turned from the moon and paced back to the shade under the mulberry trees. She brooded there on the events of the evening—on the strange masquerades, and the mysterious revelations brought about by it. More, she could not forget her master's face when she had mentioned the newly arrived guest at Thornfield. Jane's heart ached to recall it—that look of despair.

A rustling of silk interrupted Jane's thoughts. Shrinking back towards the base of the tree, Jane watched as a vision of elegance entered the clearing close by. Nerves strung, and anger roused, Jane gazed at the woman dressed in spotless white.

"Blanche" Jane remarked to herself.

Arrayed in extravagance, Blanche sparkled like a frosty star in the gloaming. Her red lips sneered towards the rising moon and blood red roses crowned her head and adorned her gown. Her brow was furrowed. She paced in the clearing with a sullen aggravation. Grasping a white china fan like a dagger, Blanche tapped the tip of it against her skirts, a look of rage and confusion in her dark eyes.

At first, Jane smiled at Blanche's consternation. She thought back to a few hours prior. She remembered how her employer had playfully told her of his foolish gypsy behavior.

--

"How did Miss Ingram look when she came out from the library, Jane?" He smiled, throwing off his wrinkled gypsy cloak. For a moment, Jane caught the spark of merriment in his eye, but she hesitated to reply. Instead, she had remained silent to the question. He leaned his head near, tilting it slightly.

"Was she displeased?" He spoke with a smile in his voice.

"I…I must go sir. It is nearly time for Adele to…" She moved towards the door.

"Aho, no!" He laughed and, catching her hand as she fled, pulled her close. "You may not go yet." He guided her to a chair, but remained standing, almost guarding her from shy escape. "You must tell me what the others say of me."

For a moment, Jane only gazed into his face—the features were alight with humour. She could not resist a smile of her own. With a flash of joy on his face, he caught her smile and grasped her hand, laughing a deep laugh. She could not help but laugh with him.

"They have plenty to discuss sir. Your charade has proved to be quite successful." Jane relished speaking in confidence with her master; to share a secret that no one else had privy to.

"Even the stranger, the new guest, partakes in the discussion" Jane smiled.

"A stranger? Who? I expected no one?"

"A Mr. Mason sir. From Spanish Town, in Jamaica I think" Jane replied sprightly.

But the horror that fell across her master's face froze her pleasure.

In a quick movement, he gripped her hand with both his, a sharp breath seizing his limbs.

"Sir? What is it? O sir, lean on me!"

He did, letting his hand rest upon her shoulder, and bending his head close to her cheek. With a despairing moan, he paused, leaning against her, and then collapsed onto the chair nearby.

"O Jane!" His eyes were full of fear and anguish. "I wish…I wish"

His voice momentarily trailed away as he looked into her face.

"What is it, sir?" Jane whispered, distraught. Gently, he pulled her down to sit beside him. For a long while he remained silent, then in a quiet voice, he said.

"I wish I was on a quiet island, far away in a distant country, with these hideous recollections removed from me… with only you as my companion…"

--

As Jane watched Blanche pace in the moonlight, she felt a strange pang that this, this, was to be Mr. Rochester's bride. She wished with all her heart that Blanche had been a good, kind woman, one worthy of Mr. Rochester love: a woman who understood him.

--I should bear it better if I knew she was a good woman, Jane mused, her heart aching.

On an impulse, against her judgment, Jane walked towards Blanche, emerging from the trees as a faerie or sprite shod in grey. Blanche, startled at finding herself not alone, cried out at the sight of Jane, a surreptitious spirit in her eyes.

But soon, she saw who it was.

"O the governess" she exclaimed, almost in anger. "What do you mean by creeping about in the shadows? I declare, if I was your mistress I should box your ears quite soundly. And then you would never take to such creeping again."

Jane calmly approached, quite close, looking up at the towering beauty before her.

"Forgive me, Miss Ingram. You frightened me as well you know, coming so suddenly into the clearing."

"yes, well, I can't help that. Go away! Go back to your nursery."

Jane stared at Blanche's face carefully, not heeding the command to depart. The face before her was very much like the painting of a few weeks before. Only, the live Blanche did not possess the softness of eye, nor the gentility of smile that the portrait did. The live Blanche was cruel, cold, bitter. Sighing, Jane asked "Miss Ingram, would you consider yourself to be a good woman?"

"A what?" Blanche started.

"A good woman—one that is worthy of a man's deep devotion and …love"

Blanche stared back at the tiny little governess, balked at the girl's plainness, yet surprised at the probing question and searching eyes.

"I…well…I" she began, then gathering her pride together. "What should it matter? And what does it matter to you?" A wry sneer came across her face. "what if I were to say I was wicked…what then governess?"

Jane only looked down at her wringing hands.

"Would you try and break up the love match, like the gypsy tried to this evening, you little snipe?" Blanche laughed a hearty laugh. "I should think that with your looks you would have a hard time of it."

"I would never interfere where it was not my affair, Miss Ingram" Jane shot back with fire. "I have my answer. Goodnight."

Jane disappeared into the deep shades of growing night, once more becoming lost in the gardens. Blanche watched the governess' retreat, then with an indignant snort, turned on her satin heels and strode back towards the hall which was all alight with candles. She recalled the gypsy's words:

"The suitor you have, madam, he is not quite what he seems. If any money trouble should come his way, he's dished. To be sure, when you marry him, you will not be quite so well off as you are now. Mr. Rochester does indeed put on a good façade."

With a spark of superstition still left in her, Blanche nervously returned to the house. But she was determined to disregard the cautions of the gypsy.

--Gypsies! They never know anything! I'll not be a fool.

Entering the drawing room, rich and ornate with red curtains and upholstery, Blanche sought Rochester. He was standing by the window, a cigar in his fingertips, half listening to Colonel Dent's musings on politics.

"Signor Eduardo!" Blanche chimed with grace, "Here you are. How beautiful your gardens are at night! I have just been walking in them. But listen," she laughed very merrily, but with a chill in her eye. "I declare that you must seek a new teacher for your ward. This current one seems determined to upturn any romance of mine."

"What can you mean, Donna Bianca?" Rochester turned with an interested air.

"Well, she came upon me in the clearing and asked me the strangest questions. I would almost go so far as to suppose that she may not be completely normal. She looked almost wild in the moonlight."

"No indeed" Rochester interrupted warmly. "Miss Eyre _is_ unique."

"Yes, well…she asked me if I was a 'good' woman. Can you imagine the insolence?"

"And?" Rochester probed.

"And what?"

"Are you?" With that, Rochester left Blanche standing by the window.

--

With fond embraces, Jane left Adele with Sophie in the nursery, saying goodnight with a gentle smile and kiss. Slowly moving down the corridor to her own room at the other end of the wing, Jane grasped in her hands a small watercolor portrait titled "Blanche." She had left it in the schoolroom earlier that day and wished to examine it again in the solitude of her own chamber. Laughter could be heard below in the drawing room, as the party guests played at their games—sociable and otherwise. With a heavy heart, Jane thought she could distinguish the low voice of Mr. Mason in conversation down below. His presence baffled her. And Mr. Rochester disavowed nothing.

As she passed down the hall, a door flew open directly beside her and a man, moving quickly from the room, tumbled into the pale, little governess. Although he did not knock her down, the force of their collision made Jane's fingers loose grip of the portrait. It fluttered to the floor, the face of "Blanche" to the ground.

"Jane, forgive me." It was Mr. Rochester.

He helped her regain her balance, then asked grimly.

"Have you put Adele to bed?"

"Yes, sir." She bent to pick up the paper.

"No, no allow me Jane." He swiftly gathered the sheet and saw in a moment, the work of her hands. He paused then gave a weary sigh.

"Ah! I see you too have marked Miss Ingram's beauty. Will she not make a becoming bride?"

With a flame of fury in her heart, Jane snatched the paper from his hands. Then, repentant of her rash action, she replied

"I do not know sir. Beauty to me is of little importance."

"Hmm. External beauty maybe. But, internal beauty…of that Janet you are an expert. But I must join my guests and show Mr. Mason his room for the night." With a knowing look, he patted her shoulder. Then, saying a brief goodnight, he strode downstairs to join the party.

For a moment, Jane stood in the shadows of the corridor, still. The moon was slowly moving higher in the sky, casting gentle rays on Thornfield. It should have been a tranquil night. But rage, passion, and blood were too near the surface for the inmates of the hall to be guaranteed a silent night.


	5. Chapter 5 The Attic

A heavy silence, a moving silence, at last crept over Thornfield that night. The earlier tumult of panic had died away. Guests were calm and sleeping again. No wind, no clouds, no screams. All lay in a façade of tranquility. All seemed well.

But in the heart of Thornfield, within the hidden corridors, Jane stood, a bloodied sponge in her hand, looking over the limp figure of Richard Mason. Her pale face stared at the flowing wound on Mason's breast. The blood, a vivid red, streamed from his neck and shoulders through his shirt and dripped slowly onto the floor. A pool was gathering underneath the chair on which he sat. In the darkness, all that could be sensed was the blood—its smell and silence. Rochester had told her to wash the wound. He had left her in that small room to fetch the surgeon. The door had only just closed. With a trembling heart, she heard his footsteps disappear into the night. For a moment, a still moment, she remained standing, fixed to that spot. Listening. Silence. Nothing moved beyond that small door on the other side of the room—the door Rochester had locked with his key.

A faint moan from Mason roused Jane to action and obedience. Rushing to his side, she knelt and dipped the sponge into the basin of water nearby. Gently, carefully, she wiped the blood from his arm and chest. The sudden pain and shock of water, the sting of it, caused Mason to open his eyes wide, to start and grip Jane by the hand.

"Ah!" He cried. "She has killed me! I…I"

Jane recalled her master's deliberate and dangerous orders:

_Jane, do not speak to this man on any pretext…no conversation! Do you hear?_

_She had nodded with a furrow of confusion on her brow. His face had been so drawn, so severe, so wild. But, before he had left the room, he had touched her elbow with his fingers, saying nothing yet saying much with the small gesture—a faint smile of weary gratitude._

"Be still, Mr. Mason, do not speak!" she told him, seeing that the effort caused a gush of blood to spill from his neck into his shirt collar. He obeyed, but his eyes wildly roamed the room and started at any small whisper of noise. Even the flicker of the candle frightened him.

At length, the blood flow slowed, and Jane took the opportunity to walk the small room to stretch her cold limbs. Shivering in her thin grey frock, Jane moved to the small window to see if the sun had risen. No. It was still dark. She tried to find stars in the inky sky. But no twinkling lights could she see. The night was deep, too deep for the hope of stars. With a sigh, she turned round to face the cramped air of the tiny room. The canopy bed with its hangings and draperies filled the room and shrank any sense of space or liberty. But through the curtains, Jane gazed at the locked door at the other side of the room. The wood was scratched around the edges, as if tiger claws had shred the sides either in an attempt to enter or escape. Glancing at the drowsing Mason, Jane bit her lower lip in a deep rebellion and curiosity. What lay behind the door? What beast? What woman? Grace? She was almost sure that it was Grace. Who else could have done something so gruesome and unexpected? Quietly, carefully, Jane approached the door. She had not meant to touch the wood or the handle, but as she neared, her hand reached out and felt along the scratches. Curious markings. A deep mahogany, the door glowed red in the candlelight.

"So many secrets!" Jane sighed to herself leaning her head against the door in weary resignation, a faint whisper in the quiet.

Suddenly, the door shook and rattled violently. The handle quivered. The very walls seemed to tremble with rage. A snarling voice could be heard, muffled and ambiguous. Jane started back from the door and tripped against the leg of a table nearby. Collapsing to the floor, Jane looked up at the deep red door in fear as it shook at its very hinges.

From deep within the walls, Jane could hear a voice calling

"Let me out! Let me out!"

Her heart pounding, racing, she scrambled to her feet and backed away from the door, back to Mason's side who trembled at the noise. His eyes were on the door also—a wild, despairing look on his features. Glancing at his face, Jane caught his eye to which he spoke in a trembling voice

"Never open the door…never"

Quickly, she hushed him, once more taking up the sponge attempting to remain calm as the banging and grinding of the door continued. But at length, it ceased. And a deathly hush once more crept over the room.

Every few moments, Jane would look to the red door, convinced that she had seen a movement or a shadow. But no…it was only her mind. It was only a ghost of memory. Eventually, her eye roved around the room as she tended Mason. On one of the tables, a sheet of cheap wrinkled vellum lay as if discarded and forgotten. Jane moved quietly over to the paper and though she had expected nothing in particular, what she saw inspired an awful kind of wonder.

On the vellum, a sketch, unlike anything that Jane had ever seen before, was crudely etched out with a deep charcoal. At first, Jane could not tell what the sketch was. But after a moment, the reality of the image came clear. The unknown artist had drawn a lone figure, crouched down low, arms wound about its head and knees, hiding from an immense surrounding blackness. Rough and unskilled, the artist's strokes and style were strange and experimental. There seemed to be no real rhyme to the representation. It was a mass of charcoal. A few gagged white marks made out the desperate figure in the foreground.

Gingerly, Jane touched the picture, and then looked around the table for more. But it was the only one in the room—a lone sketch.

Weary, Jane once more returned to Mason and sat waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Eventually, that blessed sound came to Jane's ears, and she heard Rochester voice in the corridor.

"Thank God" She whispered.

When Rochester entered, he first looked to the red door, then to Jane. With a sigh, he let the surgeon enter, urging him to hurry.

"Jane, will you fetch Mason's cloak from his room? It is the one next to mine" His air was distracted and desperate.

She went in quiet obedience, cold and deeply troubled.

And when she returned the strange sketch had disappeared.

--

_A child sat huddled in the corner of a vast master bedroom. The red pomp and extravagance of the draperies, ornaments and upholsteries the trembling figure of the child. A lone grey figure amidst the violent sea of red, the little girl wept softly, not daring to look around her. Each creak or whisper made her body twitch and shake. Utterly alone in the blood red chaos, she whispered prayers and breathed out petitions._

"_Please…o …please…let me out…"_

_But no one heeded her. No one came near that room._

_For a long while, the tiny girl remained enveloped in a heavy stillness—the weight of her fear pressing in. But then, she heard a rush of wings, and a breath of air. She jerked her head up, almost against her own will, and saw a grey ghostly light, a shimmering presence at the other end of the room. _

_--_

"Jane!" Rochester's voice interrupted memory. Standing nearby in the dreary courtyard, he extended his hand to her and called. "Let us walk in the garden. The house is a dungeon, a prison. But out in nature,…all is right and pure and true."

In the quiet of the morning, he led her wandering through the trees and brush, meandering in the stillness and mist. Ever few moments, Jane would glance at her master's face—strained and pale. The night had been long for him as well. Coming to a mist laden arbour of willow trees and rose bushes, Rochester released Jane's hand and bent to touch a meek little rosebud with his fingertips. As she watched, he caressed the windblown flower, damp with dew; then, deftly plucking it from its stem, he held it to his nostrils and smelt the sweet perfume.

"Will you have a flower Jane?" He turned to her, offering the bud in a nearly gallant gesture.

With a small smile, Jane reached out and took the delicate flower; her fingers brushed against his as she seized the stem, and in the cool of the mist, she felt her color rise as she brought the blossom to her lips.

"Thank you sir" She was grateful. But the terrors of the night seemed to shrivel the beauty of the morning, choking out its innocence.

"It has been a strange night, Jane. Were you afraid?"

Her eyes flashed with questions.

"Yes." She answered with a firm voice. "Yes. I was afraid of something in that other room." Almost in anger, she spoke to provoke him, to rouse him so that he might reveal the truth of the mystery. But his face, instead of growing piqued or ire, became tender and fond. He gently touched her shoulder with his hand.

"I had locked the door. I should have been careless, a careless Shepard, if I had left a little lamb so near a den of wolves."

His hand lingered a moment, then dropt away. Weary of the weight of secrets, she kept her gaze low.

"My pet lamb" he mused, tilting his head to catch her eye.

--

When night had fallen and the long day had passed, Jane retired to her room, not yet ready to fetch Adele to go down to the guests in the drawing room. Instead, she remained in her plain grey dress, no longer willing to change into finer attire, and sat at her desk with paper and charcoal at her fingertips. Almost in a trance, Jane stared at the sheet before her, her hand seeming to move on its own, making shapes and shades with the charcoal. For a long while she sat there—the mind distant and troubled. She thought of Mason, of Mr. Rochester, of Blanche and of the red door. Over and over, she recalled the events of the past fortnight, the strain it had been upon her heart. Her soul loved him so truly, so faithfully. And it was death to see him bestow himself upon another. To live in this house and see him wed Blanche would break her spirit, would rend her heart. And to dwell at Thornfield, with Grace Poole still lurking in the shadows…

_It is enough to drive me mad! _She thought in despair. _I shall always love him. But he will never see me as more than...and…I cannot…There are too many secrets…_

A click of the handle at her bedroom door startled Jane from her reverie. It was little Adele, ready to join la belle Demoiselles downstairs.

"Mademoiselle Eyre!" Adele cried. "You are not dressed! You must put on your finest gown! No one will see you if you do not!"

Jane stared back at the child, arrayed in a vivid pink satin and roses.

"Today, Adele, I do not wish to be seen. But I come…Just stay there a moment."

Glancing back to her sketch, Jane had meant to put her tools away. But she caught her breath when she saw what her fingers had created.

There on the paper, a lone figure crouched down low, arms wound about its head and knees, hiding from an immense surrounding blackness. It mirrored the drawing that Jane had seen in the attic.

Shaken, Jane started back from drawing, recalling the red door and its terrors, and surprised that her hand should have executed such eerie similarity. Rubbing her temples, Jane sighed and gathered her nerves together.

"Come Adele," She took the child by the hand, and shut her bedroom door, almost as if she wished to keep some wild thing locked within.


	6. Chapter 6 The Portrait and the Hearth

The coach jostled and rattled as it made its way across the moors. A cloudy day had risen for the travelers. Outside, the moors were emerald, with spots of purple heath sprouting from the ground. Although the sky was dismal, the summer landscape did not loose its color, vibrancy or life. Birds flew in wide arcs over the moorland and swept their wings through pools of water, showering the earth with the spray. It was a grey but lively day. The sun, barely shrouded with clouds, had been trying to stretch its rays through to the earth all morning. Perhaps, the evening would bring a brighter sky.

Inside the coach, a handful of grim travelers sat, attempting between bumps and jumps to keep their belongings from going askew. Jane Eyre huddled in a corner of the coach, her head bent over her sketch book, only raising her eyes every now and then to look to see if the sun had shown its face. An older lady, across from Jane, tried with the most intentional nonchalance to see the contents of the young lady's sketchbook. Every now and then, the Dame would get a glimpse of a shape, then the coach would hit a bump and her view would be shattered. She was so very curious. Lips pursed in aggravation, the old lady schemed in her own mind of how to get a look at the sketchbook—she was an exceedingly inquisitive sort of person. At last, she could bear it no longer.

"Eh... Young Lady?"

Jane raised her head.

"Tell me. Where are you traveling to?"

Jane gave a meek smile.

"I am going home. I live near Millcote, close to the village of Hay."

"Ah!" said the old lady, trying to think of an easy leap into the topic of sketching. "That is near where I live. I and my daughter and husband live in Millcote ourselves. My daughter is a wonder; she is always running around with her books and pencils and sketching things" (Hardly a representation of fact).

"Does she?" Jane asked out of politeness.

"O yes. But I see you have a little book as well. Tell me, do. What sketches have you got in your book?"

A blush rose to Jane's cheek for a moment, and almost in impulse, she covered the sketchbook with her muffler.

Jane answered, suddenly shy and shamed. "It is a friend of mine."

Finding that her scheme had failed, that the young lady was wholly unwilling to offer her sketch for perusal, the old dame gave a quick twitch of the mouth, attempting to look less disappointed than she felt.

Eventually, the old lady's attention deferred away from Jane, as she began conversing instead with an elderly gentleman who sat on the other side of the coach.

Glad to be forgotten, Jane discreetly removed the muffler from the sketch book to look upon the portrait once more. There, there were the flashing dark eyes, shadowed with secrets; there was the firm mouth, set grimly; there was the angular face, surrounded by dark locks of hair. Carefully, she had drawn a likeness of Mr. Rochester as she had last seen him, standing with his back to the door of the library, looking down at her. Indeed, he was not handsome in any conventional means. But as Jane looked at the sketch before her, her heart ached with a pang of love so deep that the general unattractive physiognomy mattered little. It was the soul that looked out through those eyes, the heart that was secretly kind; his spirit of generosity, the depth of his intellectual and spiritual perceptions; he was a beautiful soul, wild, passionate, and honest. All these and more, she loved so dearly. And the potent knowledge of her love, coupled with the awareness of an impending marriage, made the journey home from Gateshead at once sweet and bitter.

--

"_So it seems you and I must bid goodbye for a little while" He rose from his chair, with a gentle smile on his face. _

"_Yes, sir." Jane tucked her tiny purse back into her dress pocket, now full with the ten pounds that Mr. Rochester had given her as wages. Thinking of the tasks to be done before her morning departure, she made for the door in a distracted air. He darted in front of her path to the door. _

_How do people perform such a ceremony of saying goodbye, Jane?"_

_She looked at him puzzled. _

"_Teach me." He smiled. "I am not quite up to it—the traditions now"_

_Giving a gentle laugh, she replied, "It has not changed so drastically sir. They say farewell, or something akin to it"_

"_Ah!" He crossed his arms, with a subdued air. "Then say it, Jane."_

_At first, Jane had thought she could manage the words with out anguish. Yet, when it came to it, her tongue and her heart faltered._

"_Fare…farewell Mr. Rochester" her voice shook. "for the present" _

_With the echoes of her voice fading, he only stared back at her, not reading her face, but gazing at it—a sad look in his eye._

"_What must I say Jane?" He whispered, taking a step towards her._

"_Well, the same sir…If you prefer."_

_He took another step to stand before her, hands by his sides._

"_Farewell Miss Eyre, for the present." He said slowly._

_To have him so near—she could not bear it. In a haste, she attempted to make for the door again, but his voice stopped her._

"_Is that all?" _

_In a shift motion, he had seized her hand, withholding her escape. She looked back to him._

"_I should like an addition to the rite. If one shook hands…" He drew hers near to him, taking it in both his own. But Jane would have no sentiment. Gripping his hand firmly, she gave it a brief shake then loosed her fingers. But his still retained a tight grasp. In a quiet voice, he mused_

"_No. That does not content me either…Will you do no more than say farewell Jane?"_

"_It is enough." Eyes cast down, she began to tremble. What more could she do? _

_For a moment, they stood hand in hand, his eyes on her face, and her eyes on the carpet. Then, with a sigh, Mr. Rochester dropped the tiny white hand._

"_It is very likely that it is enough…But Jane, it is blank…cool."_

_She raised her eyes to his face, anxious to get away._

"_Farewell sir" she said with a growing chill in her voice._

_With a flash of a grimace, he tossed up his hands, and turned, striding out of the library._

_As he went, he called back to her, "Farewell, Miss Eyre."_

_For a moment, only a brief moment, she stood listening to his steps leaving her. Then, with a sigh, she made her way upstairs to prepare for the journey._

_--_

A faerie returned home.

Alone in her room unpacking, Jane smiled as she remembered the warm welcome she had received from all at Thornfield on her return. Mrs. Fairfax had smiled kindly and gripped her hand with a gentle pressure. With a vast array of French, Sophie had embraced Jane and complained teasingly that the governess' absence had exhausted her strength and patience beyond any recovery. Adele, overjoyed to once more behold her friend—Ma petite Jeanette—had clamored down the steps of Thornfield to meet Jane as she had made her way up the drive.

"O Mademoiselle! O fille!" She had cried, leaping into Jane's waiting arms. "I have missed you!"

Jane had gathered Adele in a close embrace and spun her round with laughter and joy. To love, and be loved, to see herself in Adele, stirred deep affection within Jane's heart. In merriment, she had set Adele down and asked her questions, aware but not heeding Mr. Rochester's careful watch of the reunion as he walked up behind them.

With a quick glance, she had looked to her master's face. He was smiling still—a dear, precious expression.

She might have said something, but Adele had grasped her hand and had pulled her quickly into the hall talking and giggling all the way.

Now, alone in her chamber, Jane sat on her bed, looking at her half emptied trunk, unwilling to completely unpack all the contents.

--Who knows how long I shall be here? She thought in a sad revelation.

Suddenly afraid of the loneliness of the room, she flung open her door and sought Mrs. Fairfax and Adele in the parlour.

"Ah! Jane!" Mrs. Fairfax smiled at her entrance. "Have you finished all your unpacking? You must be tired."

With a gesture of her hand, Mrs. Fairfax invited Jane to sit beside her, close to the fire, to share in the intimacy of the evening.

"I have not done yet" Jane sat and took up Adele on her lap, who remained still and content in her governess arms. "I am tired but a little."

"Well I should suppose so, traveling all day and night. But I am glad you are back Jane. It has been quite dull and gloomy since the guests left. Did Adele tell you that they left only a short time after you had departed?"

Jane nodded, leaning her head towards the old matron as she watched the fire.

"Well, I have greatly wanted for your company." Mrs. Fairfax patted Jane's hand, letting the gesture linger to endow it with special fondness.

The chilled heart within melted.

"Mrs. Fairfax? How long do you think it will be till the wedding? I hope it is not too soon."

"Mr. Rochester's? O I have no knowledge about that. He has said nothing to me." Mrs. Fairfax gave a quiet sigh, clearly troubled at the prospect of separation from those that she cared for.

With a quick smile, Jane replied "I am sure he will not separate us all immediately."

"No. No. To be sure. He is a good master." The fire cast both shadows and light upon the three as they sat together—a temporary, fragile sanctuary.

A moment later, the parlor door opened and Mr. Rochester entered, a book in hand.

"Well," he said with a small smile, looking upon the picture before him. "You are glad that you have your adopted daughter back then Madame Fairfax?"

The old lady merely blushed and smiled at Jane.

"And you, little doll," he leaned over Adele who sat cradled in Jane's arms, "You are happy to have your petite maman Anglaise home again?"

Adele, who normally would have leapt from Jane's arms at the sight of her allusive ward, stayed quiet and still in her governess' embrace.

"Oui, Monsieur" she replied, nestling her head on Jane's shoulder.

Taking a seat opposite them, Rochester settled with his book to enjoy the fire. But before he lost himself in the text, he raised his eyes playfully to Jane.

"And you Miss Eyre? Are you glad to be back with your true family?"

His eye sparkled. He had remembered her hasty words upon the fields.

_Wherever you are is my home—my only home._

For a moment, Jane remained silent, then in a gentle low voice, she replied.

"Yes, sir. I am."

But a haunting doubt lingered in the minds of the three ladies as they sat close together at the hearth. How long would Thornfield remain their home—how long would it remain without a mistress?


	7. Chapter 7 Midsummer Day

Summer, sweet and warm, had come to Thornfield. After Jane's return from Gateshead, the life of Thornfield slowed to an easy pace, a dim haze, as the woods and fields ripened in the sun. Often, Jane and her pupil would forgo the confines of the school room and nursery to roam the grounds together. Hand in hand, they tramped through lanes and fields, across the upper moors and through groves of woods. As they walked, Adele prattled in her usual way, gazing round at the summer beauty with Jane close by. Ever aware of the imminent future, Mr. Rochester's marriage, Jane treasured the bright moments of gregariousness between herself and her student. Adele was not clever, but she possessed a charming zeal and an earnest vivacity in her spirit. The world was open to her, she relished its delights, no matter how insignificant they were. Beauty was her utmost desire and pleasure. In Adele, Jane saw her own desire for beauty, to be beauty, to have beauty of all kinds. Such things bonded the two together as companions of sorts. But Adele only sought the surface beauty—she was only preoccupied with appearance—while Jane delved deep, seeking spirit, seeking inner light.

"Mademoiselle!" Adele cried as they strolled through the woods. She had spotted a stag through a cluster of trees and, pulling of Jane's hand, cried, "tres belle! Is it not Madame? Look!"

Jane smiled and knelt down to her pupil's eye level.

Whispering, the governess said, "It is very beautiful Adele. Look at how graceful it is."

Enraptured by the regal stag, Adele wrapt her short arms around Jane's neck only half aware of her actions. An expression of precious wonder shone from her face, and she giggled softly into her teacher's shoulder, leaning her cheek against Jane's. At first, Jane caught her breath. Then, stifling tears, she drew her pupil into a warm embrace, holding the child as a mother might—fondly.

_I hated you too much, Jane Eyre, to ever see you on the road to success or security. When you turned on me and declared that you abhorred me, worse than anybody in the world, I could not forget it. And I took my revenge._

The sting of tears, of memory, made bitter the moment of sweet love. Adele did not notice the pained expression on her teacher's face, nor did she heed the soft sob that issued from Jane's throat as her arms withdrew.

Eventually, the stag wandered away, and Adele turned to smile upon her companion. Standing up from her crouched position, Jane playfully tugged on one of Adele's mousy curls.

"Come Adele!" she smiled down at her pupil. "Shall we run a race to the willow grove?"

The child's eyes lit up at the challenge as she heartily consented and tore off into the trees before Jane was ready. Laughing merrily, the two ran across the soft grasses of the grounds, joyous at the sunshine and the beauty of the woods. With grey skirts flooding out behind her in the race, Jane ran close behind Adele, laughing, running, trying—to forget. They were like children, happy and lively with the sunshine.

_Forgive me Aunt. I was a child. Forgive me. Kiss me Aunt Reed. There was no reply._

In jubilation, Adele collapsed in a heap of taffeta onto the wide bed of roots that ran under the willow tree.

"I have won! Très bien!" She laughed and clapped her hands. Joining the child underneath the gentle willow, Jane tickled her victor, the blood rushing to her cheeks, dying them warm red. Laughing and talking, they sat to catch their breath, happy in the arms of the willow. There was no breeze, and the air was warm.

"Miss Eyre?" Adele asked, after a moment of stillness.

"Yes, Adele."

"Why must you go away? I do not want you to go away."

"Who told you I was leaving, Adele?"

"Sophie. She said that you would leave very soon. But she did not tell me why."

For a moment, Jane only gazed into Adele's large grey eyes.

"It is true Adele. I will have to leave someday. Perhaps it will be when you are older and a lady. Or perhaps it will be very soon."

"But Sophie…"

"Nevermind what Sophie told you. Let us only enjoy the time we know we will have together."

"When is that?" Adele was puzzled.

"Well, right now."

"But I do not want you to leave…ever. I love you too much."

Jane felt tears rise again. She pulled Adele close and held her for a moment. Then, gathering together her nerves, Jane laughed.

"Come, we should go and see if we can gather some strawberries in Hay Lane. I am sure they are ripe by now. Mrs. Fairfax asked us to gather some for Maria. Should you like that?"

The child nodded and clapped her hands with glee, forgetting the former melancholy moment.

"I will get the baskets then. You can stay out here if you like." Jane began walking the short distance to the house.

"O I will come with you, Miss Eyre. We must be together." She skipped on ahead of Jane, and breathed out a merry little coquette song. Briefly, Jane smiled. Then her face assumed a grave pale look as they approached the house. To enter it, to walk in his house, to love it as her home robbed her soul of joy. Before, Jane had enjoyed the interior of Thornfield just as much as the exterior. The shadowy, grand corridors had been fertile for her imagination. But now, with its master, beloved, ever present indoors, Thornfield aroused unquenchable sorrow and foreboding. It could not be her home any longer. Each time she entered its doors, she must think of herself as a stranger.

As Jane scampered up the steps of the entrance, trying to quiet Adele who was still lustily singing, she glanced to the master's study door. It was open a crack. Grasping Adele by the hand, Jane whispered icily,

"Be silent! Mr. Rochester is in his study and should not be disturbed."

"Mon chéri!" The child made for the door, hoping to surprise her benefactor. But Jane held her fast, and steered her towards the kitchen.

"Here, here is a basket for you." Said Jane, handing a wicker basket to Adele.

"And one pour vous" replied the eager child.

"Merci mon chéri. Now, Adele, I will wait here in the entrance hall while you fetch our bonnets from the schoolroom. Be quick now! Or all the strawberries will be gone."

Away with rustle of her skirts and ribbons, Adele scrambled up the staircase as quickly as her little legs could climb, and clamored away into the quiet. In the stillness of the grand hall, Jane sighed, alarmed at being so suddenly alone. She wrung her hands in nervousness—for what? She did not know. Then a door swinging open broke the silence. Jane turned to see Rochester striding from his study towards her.

"Jane!" A merry smile on his face. "How are you today? Have you been outside? You look like the sun has been kissing your cheeks." He was all joy and kindness. Jane could not keep a subdued smile from her lips.

"We were outside earlier sir. We went to walk in the woods, and Adele spotted a stag in the brush."

"Did she now? Well, I am sure that pleased her vanity."

"I suppose so sir." Jane grew quiet, and low spirited; the mental figure of Blanche loomed overhead. He remained near her, almost waiting for her to speak.

"What is the matter? You seem gloomy today Jane."

"There is nothing the matter, sir. It is a fine day today and I am glad to enjoy the outdoors." She retreated to one of the windows, hoping he would continue on his way. But he did not. He followed close and stood at her side, looking out to the grounds through the glass.

"To be sure, it is a fine day. It will be a fine night as well. But, there is something weighing on your thoughts." His voice came soft and low. "Tell me, Jane."

"I…there is nothing sir…I am very well" She cast her eyes down.

"But through my window, which was open in this fine weather, I heard laughter out in the trees and saw you running with Adele, all merry and joyous; with crimson cheeks and happy eyes. Now, see a downcast expression. Has something happened to distress you Jane?"

How could she tell the truth? How? He could never love her, not in the way that she loved him. She was only a governess. But, o, she understood him, and he her. This fact, this true understanding between them, broke her heart—for there would never be another like him. But she could never say this.

"Not at all sir." She turned to face him, startled at his closeness. "I and Adele shall go to pick strawberries from Hay Lane this afternoon. Before the men in green steal them all."

He smiled in a familiar air: "I thought the men in green all forsook England years ago."

Jane laughed slightly at the memory.

"For their moonlight revels, certainly sir. But this is midday." She smiled warmly into his face, unable to control her expression.

For a brief moment, Rochester watched her bright expression, almost in shock to see her smile so.

A clatter of feet echoed across the hall as Adele came running with bonnets in hand.

"Here Miss Eyre I…O Monsieur Rochester!" With elation, she bounded to meet him as he pulled away from Jane and greeted the child with a mildness, unusual for him.

"I bid you both a merry berry picking" He nodded his head, ignoring Adele's demands that he come with them.

With curt laugh, he declined the passionate invitation and withdrew up the staircase.

"O I wish he would come too!" Adele pouted as Jane tied a white bonnet onto the child's head. "You said we must spend our time together and…well if you are to leave soon, Mr. Rochester should come with us!"

"Adele" corrected Jane, the blush on her cheeks fading. "I told you not to think on it. Do not worry. Now, come, we have delayed in the house long enough."

--

Rochester heard the fading reverberations of their footsteps leaving the house as he made his way up the stairs. The merry look that had lit his face moments before had faded drastically. Now, his expression was sullen and grey. With an aimless step, he wandered towards his room, walking past the various chambers of the second floor—the housekeeper's chamber, Adele's nursery, the schoolroom. Here, he paused. Adele had left the door open. He could have left it alone. But, curiosity, a desperate kind, bid him enter; this was his only access to _her_ world. He could not get in by any other means—the character of master and employer gave him freedom to satisfy his questions by seeking the schoolroom but no more than that.

Entering the schoolroom with a direct stride, Rochester soon felt his loud step hushed and his brazen manner humbled. The schoolroom, the governess' realm, lay before him in a meek and uncomplicated air. A desk, a bookshelf, an easel, the teacher's table—this place interested him immediately. Walking quietly as if afraid to disturb a spirit in the place, he came to her desk and gingerly touched her pencils with his fingertips, looking. He did not know what he sought. But still, his fingers brushed through the loose paper on her desk. Then something caught his sharp eye. Another sketch. It was covered partially by scrap paper. Swiftly but silently, Rochester swept the sheets away to view the new art work. His breath stilled when he viewed it. For a long while he stood, looking at the work of her hands. He dared not touch it; he had trespassed too much already. But what he saw on the page before him lit a flame of hope within his grim face—a spark of joy, a glimmer of light.

For a long while he stood in the schoolroom, deep in thought. Then, setting his jaw, he whispered to himself in the stillness,

"Tonight. It must be tonight."

With a swift step, he left the room, seeking his own chamber, leaving behind the portrait Jane had sketched only weeks before—the portrait of Mr. Rochester. As he walked down the shadowy halls, the master of the house smiled, not out of vanity at his own portrait, but at the fresh courage and hope that it gave him. It meant that she had thought of him—not as a landscape, not as an object, but as an imaginative equal. Through that portrait, Rochester knew that what he had felt all along was true. He had met with her in spirit; they were linked. And he knew that he must make her confess that truth herself.


	8. Chapter 8 The Evenstar Rises

_Pardon for the delay. I have been ill for the last while but am better now. Hence the next painting..._

A thunderstorm, violent and cold, had swept down from the north that evening. Flashes of lightening lit the sky, and the woods surrounding Thornfield rippled and swayed like a great grey ocean in the dark. Through all this, Jane stood by her window, watching the passionate storm. Every few moments, a white flash would illuminate her face as she gazed out into the dark. She was smiling.

_My equal is here and my likeness._

With joy, she remembered his words of only a few hours before in the gardens. He had found her wandering in the orchards as the sun set, casting a warm glow over the grounds. And there, they had battled; he for her love, and she for her right to love. At the news of Ireland, of departure, her heart had broken and a fury, deep and consuming, had risen in her, no longer able to be concealed.

_Do you think because I am poor, obscure, plain and little that I am soulless and heartless? I have as much soul as you and full as much heart!_

She had raged—her face glowing in the light and her hands clenched.

_It is my spirit which addresses your spirit, just as though both had passed through the grave, and stood at God's very feet, equal—as we are._

Remembering this, Jane watched the trees of the gardens toss and leaves swirl in the dark. The night shook and trembled with the rain, wind and thunder. And she also recalled his words.

_Jane, as you are, I entreat you to accept me as a husband. I must have you for my own—completely my own. Will you be mine?_

And she had said yes. Again, Jane smiled in the darkness of her room and stifled a happy laugh as she thought of it. She would be his. And he would be hers. But the sweeter part of it was the wondrous release that she felt in her being. No more secrets. No more suppression. No more games. No more lies. She had spoken her heart and bared her true soul. The red room had not charred it; Lowood had not frozen it; it was alive, vibrant and full of love.

Another flash of lightening filled the sky. Jane glanced down to her desk and saw she had left sketches scattered there: Mr. Rochester's portrait, the seascape, and another—the evenstar.

--

With the lavender shades of twilight fading over the landscape, a lone figure climbs a grassy hill that overlooks the sea. Cloaked in dark robes, she slowly walks, gazing at the shadowy world around her. Long dark hair floats around her head and shoulders, flowing down her back. The wind is not wild; it is soft but steady. As if under water, the garments and hair of the figure stream slowly through the air. Her face is young and pale, but her eyes are ancient. As night falls, she reaches the tops of the hill and surveys the great sea before her. It is calm. No crests or wild torrents. For a long while, she stands, casting her eye towards the ocean and towards the sky. As she looks, the evenstar, great and bright, shine forths. It nearly pulses with its brilliance.

Then, as if be a mystical force, the star begins to descend. The figure watches in silent awe, but then realizes that the star is falling directly above her. But she does not run. She only stands still and waits for it, holding her arms up to it.

"Come" she whispers.

Gently, the star lands upon the woman's brow—it does not burn her. Rather, it illuminates her soul and brings it forth to the clearness of her eyes. The evenstar has both set and risen. Its light is a blessing, long withheld, but at last received. It is the promise of new life.

--

A great crash of lightening startled Jane from her sweet reverie, and a chilling rumble rolled through the hills as the thunder spread out into the night. With the moment of trepidation, Jane suddenly recalled the mystery of her lover's final words.

_It will atone…God will judge me kindly. For the world's opinion I wash my hands thereof; as for man's opinion, I defy it. _

In the dark, a frown clouded her face as she rubbed her arms to keep warm. What could he mean? Was he ashamed to take a wife such as her? He had said he wanted her just as she was, but was he truly unconcerned about tradition and opinion. Jane again thought of Blanche and of her rank.

"Surely if he were flippant towards conventionality, he would not have courted Miss Ingram as he did. I must put the query to him tomorrow. He said he never would have married her but…"

She wrung her hands in the chill and continued to gaze out the window.

"But such thoughts were not for me to dwell on now," she mused. He had declared his love, his devotion, and she had confessed hers. It was enough. The terror of the storm could not disturb the joy within her. Forget mystery! Think only of joy!

Suddenly, a light knock came at her door. A subtle tapping. She went and cautiously whispered to the panel,

"Who is it?"

A low voice answered, "Open the door my darling"

In a moment, the door was opened. Rochester stood in the shadows, wrapped in his cloak, a happy but concerned look on his face.

"I wanted to be sure you were well. The thunder rang out so loud."

Jane stifled a laugh, and at her merriment, Rochester's troubled look melted to one of joy.

"But I see," he smiled. "that a faerie has no fear of storms. No doubt it was you who conjured up this one."

"I am no faerie sir! I claim no responsibility for this tumult of wind and rain." Jane whispered fondly in the dark. At her voice, Rochester reached his hand out to find hers. His fingers, warm, clasped hers to his heart.

"No longer _sir_, Jane" His voice was no longer light, but passionate. "Say it again! Call me by my name."

Jane felt her arm being drawn closer to him; for a moment, she yielded. Then, with alacrity, she snatched her hand away with a laugh and whispered,

"What's in a name? That which we call a Rose, by any other name, would smell just as sweet. Do you not agree sir?" She made to retreat to her room, but Rochester catching her textual bent, whispered low,

"But wilt thou leave me so unsatisified?" His eye sparkled with both earnestness and merriment.

"O sir, what satisfaction canst thou have tonight?" Jane tilted her head in puzzlement.

"Ah Jane, my name. Will you not give me that at least?" He reached for her hand again, a strange look crossing his features.

With a smile, not a teasing smile but a fond one, Jane came close, suddenly giddy and bold from the midnight exchange, and wrapped her arms about his neck.

"Goodnight then… Edward."

Before she could get away, he pressed his lips to hers, happy, truly happy.

Quickly, she withdrew, suddenly shy.

"You should return to your room, sir" Jane said with jocularity.

With a curt laugh, Rochester leaned against her door pane, gazing at her with a smile.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, my love" He brushed her cheek with his fingers. "Goodnight."

--

"What… are you doing Mistress? It is in the middle of the night."

No answer.

"Now come on. Let me take away the pencil…now…let me have the pencil, dear. What _are_ you doing?"

No reply. A gentle struggle for the pencil. A rustle of paper.

"There…I've got it. It is time to sleep now. Yes. Yes it is. You just lie down there on your bed."

A loud crack of thunder close by. A whimper.

"Ah does the storm frighten you? I see it does. Well, there is nought that I can do about it. Just you lie down like that and close your eyes. Yes, close your eyes now. There."

A mumble of speech.

"What's that now? Shall I sing? No. I must sleep too you know. Now shut your eyes and go to sleep."

For a while, there is silence.

Then, a cracked garbled voice, begins to quietly sing to itself—an uneven melody—a song that is quickly lost in the sound of the wild wind and rain.

Outside, Thornfield lies in deep darkness, save for the candlelit room on the third floor. But soon, even that goes out; the brittle window pane swings open at the violence of the storm and extinguishes the flame inside.


	9. Chapter 9 The Wild Bride

The return to Gateshead had been uneventful—outwardly. But as Jane approached the old estate, as she followed Bessie to the house, and as she sat with her cousins in the drawing room, Jane burned inwardly. Her resolution to forgive would not be broken; but to return to the dwelling place, to cross the threshold, stirred up an old fire in her heart, indignation. Almost audibly, she could still hear the dreaded swish of Sara Reed's satin skirts. The loud, clumsy tread of John Reed seemed just around the corner. Each painting, each ornament, each curtain, unchanged, roused Jane's senses and woke her old anger—red. But time had cooled the rage, and grace had stilled the tumult. But still, to be once more in that house surfaced a new directness, a pointed almost flinty honesty in her. No more would she cower. No more play victim.

"I know my aunt has requested to see me. Please have someone go up to tell her I am here."

They had demurred. She had demanded.

That evening, though Jane could not see Mrs. Reed that night, she opened her chamber door—bold and ready to confront her memories. With a soft gait, she glided along the hall made her way to the next story of the house. As she reached the staircase, she heard voices below—her cousins.

"I cannot conceive of how little and puny she still is!" It was Georgiana's voice. "She scarcely comes up to my shoulders."

Eliza answered stoically, "She was always so."

"And how insolent she has remained as well. To come here and demand to see mama directly as if this were her house. I had a good mind to send her to stay with Bessie rather than sleep under our roof"

"Georgiana, you are too capricious and hasty. She is our cousin even if there be no love in the bond." Eliza was stone.

"O you have no trouble feeling nothing. You are hard. But I feel. I would rather have her not go to see mama. Not for her insolence"

"My mother has requested it."

"Well"

"I will honor her desire."

"You never honor anyone's desire but your own…"A snort of indignation. "Augh, she is ever so homely. What does she do now, did she say? I don't remember."

Eliza gave an irritated sigh, "She is governess to a wealthy bachelor's ward. That is what she said."

"A governess! Well, she'll never amount to anything with that position."

"You forget Georgiana that Miss Eyre may marry." Eliza spoke with a biting chill in her voice.

"Marry! I should hope and say not! With such a face as hers, she will have a hard time of it. I do not think any man could wed such an ugly little thing."

"Not all men prefer your type of beauty Georgiana—shallow and stupid." Eliza cut at her sister. "Miss Eyre may not be beautiful but she is rather clever."

"Well, I still say she will never amount to anything. The earth would be better without such a creature."

A rustle of skirts proclaimed that the two were ascending the stair case. At the noise, Jane quickly scampered up to the next story to wait for her cousins to pass. She sat still on the steps—silent, cold. With her ears, she had heard the vindictive words of her cousins; their both blatant and subtle scorn of her. Embracing her knees to her chest, she thought of what had been said. To hear such injury did not surprise her. Nor did it leave her unwounded. Almost against her will, her mind floated back to thoughts of the master of Thornfield, of his kindness and gentle way of speaking to her. It had not always been that way. When they first met, he had been cool and abrupt; but time had passed, and soon she saw past the chilly exterior as did he seem to warm to her company. To think of him, in the growing night at Gateshead, brought a soft smile in the midst of pain. At least, at least, he did not deem her as totally unworthy. At least he recognized her for who she was.

But then, Jane also thought of Blanche, and that image, rising like a ghost in her mind, dispersed the smile.

All grew silent in the house again. Jane rose to her feet, meaning to descend to her own room. But then, she remembered where she was. With a slow gaze, she turned to look upon the door to the red room, the deep red door hovering a few steps above on the landing.

For a moment, she stared. Memories flooded back, a great mass of color and sound.

_Let me out! Let me out! The red curtains falling. A gust of wind filling the air._

Shivering, Jane stood still in the shadows, transfixed. Then, setting her jaw, with a determined air, she climbed the last few steps and approached the door.

--

With a quiet air, Jane entered the library, prepared for another evening with…her master, her betrothed. He was seated in his usual chair by the fire, brooding. He did not hear her open the door; she had been so quiet. Lightly and silently, she approached him, a guarded but teasing smile on her face. When she drew quite near, he noticed her.

"Jane! My darling!" He leapt from his chair and caught her in an embrace. "At last you come down! You are cruel to keep me waiting when I have been longing to see you all this day. Have you been hiding in schoolroom? You do seem to delight in tormenting your lover…your ardent lover."

He pressed his lips to her cheek, drawing her near. But she quickly unentangled herself and sat down opposite his chair.

A sardonic look crossed Mr. Rochester's face,

"O not again!" He rolled his eyes and folded his arms, staring at her. "Do you truly mean to keep up this charade of formality? I thought you deemed Mrs. Fairfax satisfied and your own pride cooled."

"But not yours, Sir?" Jane raised a bright eye to his sputterings.

He laughed, and leaned over her,

"My pride is in a little imp who will not yield—truly you _are_ flinty. I believe you now! I had not so before but this!" He gestured to the chair that she sat upon. "To keep a distance, to separate from me, when I have been apart from you all day…it is cruel Jane." He smiled, as he sat down opposite her.

She merely tilted her head, watching his attempts at persuasion.

"What shall we do tonight, sir?" she asked with a quick tongue. "Shall I read for you? Or will you play for me again?"

"No, _I'll_ not play! Not after last night's trickery!" His eyes sparked with a deep mirth.

"Then I will read for you then. What shall you hear?" Jane rose to go to the book shelf.

Rochester thought a moment, then said with an uncharacteristically nonchalant tone:

"No, I should like to talk with you."

Jane returned to her seat, and folded her hands on her lap, waiting.

"What have you been doing this day, then?" Rochester asked.

"Teaching Adele, helping Mrs. Fairfax," She answered.

"And what did you teach Adele?"

"She is writing a poem, sir. We are reading Wordsworth together, and Adele professed a desire to try her hand at poetry."

"The little coquette as a Romantic poet? What! I daresay her poem is full of frills and frolics. Hardly Wordsworthian. To be sure, she revels in the ridiculous."

Jane's smile clouded over.

"No, sir. You underestimate Adele's mind."

"Do I?"

"Yes." Jane replied with some tight annoyance. "She has a very vivid imagination once you get her beyond her Paris upbringing. It is not all dolls and ribbons and lace. There is more."

"Well, you must bring me her poetic masterpiece once it is finished. I should like to discern whether there be a Poet Laureate in Thornfield."

Jane lowered her gaze to her hands.

"I shall, if you wish, sir."

Silence. The fire crackled.

"I shall hear George Herbert tonight, Miss Eyre. The book is in the corner shelf I believe."

With a swift movement, Jane rose and moved to the corner of the shelves, not hearing Rochester rise and follow her. Her small fingers quickly snatched up Herbert from the shelf, but when she turned, she found herself caught between the books and their owner.

For a moment, she started and almost gave a cry. But his face, so earnest, so gentle, calmed her.

"Jane." He whispered, quite close. "Have I done something to make you cool? What can I do? I love you too well, not to know. Tell me at once. "

Jane gave a small smile.

"I have the book, sir. Let us resume our seats." She made to push him away.

"But Jane, you are not angry with me?" He held her with his gaze, not his arms. "Say you love me."

With a gentle voice, she replied,

"Edward, do…do sit." Then, gaining her alacrity and spark, she remarked. "I shall not give you an oath of love, sir, until the appointed day. Is it not enough to know that such a day is coming and that I look forward to it with a heart equally ardent to yours? Now tell me what you will have."

Rochester, a dark look returning, fell back into his chair and shrugged his shoulders with a gruff utterance.

Jane smiled at his silence, "I see you are indecisive about poetry. Perhaps you should _not_ be the deciding vote for Adele's poetic triumph."

He did not reply but sat gazing into the fire. With a stifled laugh, she placed the book on the nearby table and walked to his side. He did not seem to notice. Then, with a light touch, she kissed his temples, swift as a gust of wind, and then jumped back away from him. At her caress, he roused from his brooding and reached out to catch her in his arms—to hold her there. But she had leapt out of grasp and was laughing.

"O you imp! You wicked changeling!" He cried in mild indignation. "You'll be my bride yet! I shall not let you escape me. This is your time now, but it is will be mine soon."

Jane laughed and sat down to read Herbert. Rochester smiled once more, entertained by her sharp nature, her gentle humor, and her secure spirit. In the firelight, she glowed with victory at once more keeping her lover's ardor at arms length. As her voice filled the air, he watched her—the childish creature, so innocent yet so aware of her power.

She read,

"I struck the board and cried, "No more;

I will abroad!

What? Shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free, free as the road.

Loose as the wind, as large as store." 1

Late that night, when they had parted, Jane sat at her table in her chamber—pencil in hand. With feverish urgency, she scratched at the paper before her, attempting to capture her vision. In her mind, a bride stood amongst the wildness of the moors. A moon hung low in the sky, and a wind tore at the lone white figure.

The bride, dressed mostly as a bride should be, white and glowing, had no veil. Instead, the wind ripped through her hair, loosening it, setting it free. She was a wild bride—her face expressing a desperate but joyous expression. Around her, the wedding dress clouded and rippled in the great gust of wind. She was alone in the landscape, but her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere in the distance, off the page.

At length, Jane grew weary. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, the wind in her mind almost potent, almost real. And in the growing night, she almost thought she heard a low moan floating through the air around Thornfield.

--

The place was almost exactly as she recalled it. The great bed, the thick red curtains, the long mirror and wardrobe, all were there. With a quieted heart, Jane took a step inside; all was hushed. No wind, no wild passion—no locked doors. As she walked to the center of the room, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the giant mirror. With a dark curiosity, she drew close to her own image, staring bleakly at the glass. Years back, she had seen a pale elf in this mirror, a trembling, white, wild creature, with tears staining her cheeks. Now, there were no tears; only moonlit quietness. She had not grown tall; nor had she fully formed into a woman. She still looked a child.

With a trembling hand, Jane reached out to touch the glass. The image reached out for her in the grey light. When their hands met, Jane closed her eyes to the ghostly reflection.

A wind, a rush of wings, a red curtain falling, water, water, water, flooding the room, blood, light, shadows: all swarmed around her in the dark.

And she was drowning.

In a moment, Jane opened her eyes and started back from the frightening reflection; her own image looked so wild, so transparent, so immaterial—who was this? A ghost?

With an unsteady breath, Jane retreated from the room, and shut the door behind her.

Then quietly descending the stairs to her own chamber, she whispered to herself, gripping the rail:

"Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre."

1 George Herbert "The Collar"


	10. Chapter 10 Mirror

She had spent the day packing—happily and with a steady hand. Her old Lowood gowns forsaken, she had filled her trunks with linen, with black satins, and with pearl-grey silks. As she closed the lid, it seemed as if she was securing a treasure of hope—setting aside dreams of bliss for only two more nights. He was gone that night from Thornfield, but she was not terribly lonesome for him. Not yet. She was almost glad to have a short time to think, to anticipate the day when Jane Eyre would die and Jane Rochester would be born. No sadness clouded her aspect, for she loved him too well. But a soft gloom, a contented and momentary grief filled her chamber as she examined her thin Lowood clothes, memories both good and bad associated so closely with the shabby cotton. Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre. When he was not there with her, it seemed that all the love, the bright hope was a dream, a sweet dream. To have someone love her despite all her faults, bitterness and past was a beautiful hope that Jane had believed impossible. Why—only a few months earlier, she had hardened her heart, chilled it with ice, to prepare it for a life of solitude. But now, her inward soul flourished, expanded and grew. Each day, she loved him more; and with each day, his love healed her, as a balm to wounds. She would always be Jane Eyre: but soon, that name would be lost. She would be his.

Turning to her bridal garments, hung carefully in the closet, she touched the veil, the lace, the soft whiteness. Purity and beauty glimmered around the fairy-like array; she smiled. This was to be the first material manifestation of Jane Rochester. This clean, white cloud, all light and no shadow.

So foreign, but so longed for, this new Jane. She was almost afraid of her.

But the clock in the hall struck nine, and Jane swiftly left her room to bid Adele goodnight.

"Good night Madam!" Adele hung round her teacher's neck with kisses, as Jane lifted her into her bed.

"Good night, Adele." Jane brushed back hair from the child's forehead.

"Miss Eyre! Your eyes are all glittering. Are you sad when you should be so happy?"

"No. No. They are happy tears, Adele. Good night."

Although she was not terribly tired, Jane felt there was no reason to stay awake. He was not there to call for her. And no one else at Thornfield was about. So, quickly in the moonlight, she slipped into bed, gazing as she lay, at the white vision that waited for her across the room. A bride. A bride. Jane Eyre to be a bride. Jane Eyre to be no more. To be another. To be his.

And with a smile, she closed her eyes and slept.

--

Footsteps padded gently along the corridor. The night was dark, the shadows long and deep. A lone candle moved in the blackness. The bearer of the candle walked slowly, deliberately, carefully, so not to wake any one. No noise, an unbearable silence. The figure, a woman, slipped down the halls, turning corners with a ghostlike quietness. Soon, she came near the main corridor; she made as if to move quickly to the great staircase. However, her gait suddenly froze. With a slow movement, she turned her face to the door just adjacent. It was a normal door—like any of the others. But she was drawn to it. Silent, ever so silent, she opened the door and stepped into the room.

Close to the door, a bed stood with a gentle sleeper. But that did not interest her. No. Her eye was caught by a white glowing in the other end of the room. Softly placing the candle beside the bed on a table, the figure approached the whiteness. It was a wedding dress and a veil—delicate, small, and glittering in the moonlight. With a trembling hand, she reached out to touch the purity; it captivated her so. At her touch, the veil came loose from its place and fell to the floor. With a quick hand, she snatched it up, not roughly but swiftly. It seemed so transparent. Like a cloud, she lifted it up above her not heeding anything else in the room and walked to the long mirror. She could see her reflection through the chiffon, a dark, wild face—an unknown face. Who was this?

A rustle of sheets should have alerted her that the sleeper was awake, but she did not heed it. The whiteness, the misty cloud fascinated her eye. With a soft gesture, she dropped the veil over her head, down over her thick black hair—covering it with the beautiful light.

For moment, she stood still, looking at her image. Then, with her long hand, she reached out to her reflection and touched the glass—a gentle caress. Who was this lost face in the glass?

Then, her eyes caught in the mirror another face, a pale one, not covered by a veil, but shrouded in fear. It was a plain face—a childish one. The two faces seemed to meet in the silver glass, a strange thing. But, the spell evaporated once the child spoke aloud:

"What are you? What are you doing?"

Roused from her reverie, the woman snatched back her hand from the cool mirror and turned to face the speaker. But she could not see—the veil. The veil kept her from seeing the child. At once, the whiteness became a choking, swirling mass. A wind roared in her ears. She must get it off her head—she must! This wicked brightness! With a sudden rage, she ripped it from her head and tore at it with her fingers and nails. A tangible fury was hers! Breath came quivering as she shredded the soft material. In a final effort, she threw it to the ground and walked towards the person on the bed. As she neared, the candle began to flicker and spark at the movement.

Taking the candle in her hand, she stared at the thin, little thing in the bed—a ghost in a white night dress with long hair around her shoulders. And the spirit stared back. Their eyes met in a stifling silence. The child-woman, trembling, whispered:

"who…who…" Then, her chest convulsed, and she fell back onto her bed—still, unconscious. The candle blew out—quenched.

For a long while, the woman remained at the bedside, watching the girl in the quiet dark. Then, with a tentative gesture, she reached her fingers out and touched the girl's small thin hand. In the moonlight, it looked like alabaster. Grimly, she felt the pulse, the blood inside—red and flowing; but all was silver. She said nothing as she stood palm to palm with the strange child. A sadness incarnate—palm to palm—she withdrew her fingers at last. She could hear footsteps—Grace in the corridor. In silence, she withdrew, not noticing the piece of paper that fluttered from her robe pocket to the floor.

--

"Now then, are you satisfied?" He held her shoulders at arms length, looking at her face. "Do you accept my solution to the mystery?"

Jane hesitated for a moment, her face pale, then with a grim smile she nodded:

"Yes, sir."

Rochester smiled at her and wrapped his arms about her, drawing her close. "Then chase dull care away, Janet. Sleep with Adele in the nursery tonight, to be sure. But dream no more of sorrow, of parting and of woe. Dream on happiness—dream of bliss." He whispered, quite close, letting his voice caress her cheek and ear. With a full heart, she kissed his shoulder and his cheek; he took her face in his hands, saying,

"Look there, the stars are out at last. The storm has passed."

She looked, a night calm, a night sweet. "The night is serene, sir. And so am I."

He took her hand and kissed it softly, with a smile.

"I am glad of it. Good night then, my Jane, my bride."

She embraced him, warm and fond, not entirely willing to retreat to her own room.

"O how I do love you, sir." She whispered into his waistcoat, just loud enough for him to hear. But he drew back, not quickly but surely. His face was not stern, but moved.

"What did you say, Janet?" He asked with tremble in his voice.

She blushed, but did not avert his eye.

"You heard, sir. I know you did." She smiled, touching his lips with her fore finger. "Now goodnight, till tomorrow, God bless you, sir."

With a joyful expression, she withdrew from his arms and left the library, quietly removing to the nursery.

But he remained by the fire. As soon as the door closed and he heard her footstep disappear into the night, he gave out a gasping cry.

"Dear God!" He fell to his knees before the fireplace, his hand tight over his mouth, trying to quell the sobs that threatened there.

"Do not! Do not,… O God!... I beg of you! Please!"

His chest heaved for breath as his tears escaped.

"Do not remove from me…this…this…happiness! Dear heaven…forgive me."

--

Sophie eagerly entered the governess' room to fetch the wedding garments. Her face was bright and happy. As she walked to the closet, her foot trod upon a slip of paper. Leaning down, she picked it up and placed it upon Miss Eyre's writing desk.

"Another one of her strange drawings" She mused, as she gathered together the dress and merrily retreated to Miss Eyre's dressing room.

An hour passed before the bride issued forth.

Crowned with a plain square of tulle and tiny summer flowers, Jane walked, joyous, flushed and poignant, towards the door. A vision of morning beauty, of bridal purity, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

This, this was soon to be Jane Rochester. This happy woman!

Then, she heard reverberations of Rochester's voice below:

"Where can she be!" his voice echoed, in annoyance.

"I am sure she will not be long." Mrs. Fairfax replied with a quivering voice.

With a smile, Jane rushed to the door and to the stairs to meet her lover. And Sophie closed the closed the chamber door behind them.


	11. Chapter 11 Ice and Fire

A green, grey and black sea gently flows up and down with the tide; the movement, a gentle dance of darkened water. In that stillness, an iceberg looms over the calm water. A cathedral of ice, it floats, silent and grave, with the will of the sea. Caverns of ice, glowing green and blue, lie asleep in the water. No chaos. No storm. Only ice.

At length, the water below stirs and churns. Creamy ribbons of blue and green swirl in the cold ocean. Something moves below. With a wild fountain spray, a great head emerges from the water—a huge appendage, sorrowful and solumn. The giant face does not rise much higher out of the water than its nose; the rest is submerged. 

The large dark eyes, rimmed with blue, spy the iceberg and draw it close with two milky white, icy white, hands. It gathers—embraces the ice. 

Then, with a gentle sigh, the head leans its forehead upon the icy sheen of the iceberg; there to rest; there to dwell. Its eyes remain on the distant horizon, poignant and sad. What secrets do those silver eyes speak? What sorrow? They have seen horrors, and even now fill up with tears of ice that flow to join the current.

--

The door opened. For a moment, no one entered. But then slowly, as if in a trance, the bride reentered her own chamber. It had only been an hour or so since she had left it. They had been to church. But O, how her face had fallen—before, it had been bright and alert. Now, now, it was dim with a sleepy sorrow; frozen she seemed, her face as white as ice. 

In a mechanical manner, she removed her veil, the flowers, the gown and hung them back upon the hook where they had been that morning. Moving towards her closet, she caught sight of her image in the long mirror. Thin and white in her undergarments, she stared at her placid reflection. Then, her lips parted and her voice, weak and low, spoke aloud:

"Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre." 

She approached the mirror, and placed her hand upon the glass as she had done at Gateshead; as _she _had done the night before. With a shiver, Jane snatched her hand away and meandered to her closet to dress in her meek grey gown once more. 

Barren. Bitter. Cold, ever so cold. 

_I affirm and can prove that Edward Fairfaz Rochester of Thornfield was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, in Spanish Town Jamaica…The record of the marriage can be found…And your lady is still living._

Walking to her desk, Jane moved as a quiet ghost, silent and transparent. Gazing off into memory, she sat down in her chair and placed her fingers upon the papers that lay on her desk. 

_This, gentlemen, is my wife. _

Jane lowered her eyes to the table. An unfamiliar paper caught her attention. Gingerly, she picked up the sheet. A crude drawing of a human figure lay before her—wild, abstract, and mournful. And in the drawing, the figure was surrounded by giant flames of dark fire that licked her clothes and hair. It had been etched with charcoal and with a blunt pencil. Bits of the paper were torn away, and holes punched through. It was a tattered piece. 

_She rose up onto her legs and parted her thick locks to look at us. That face! That visage! I knew it. I had seen it before. A shriek, a howl, came from her lips as she saw me, a bride. She must have recognized me as well. Gathering her limbs, she prepared to strike, to jump, to leap at me. Her eyes said so. But Grace called "Ware," and I felt Mr. Rochester thrust me to one side to take the blow himself. I collapsed against a table as the woman leapt at his throat with wild exclamations. _

_I heard her cry amidst the tumult, "Let me out! Let me out!"_

_As I struck the table, papers that had been there fluttered and scattered to the floor. I looked. Drawings. All drawings. Wild, frantic, aimless drawings. Were they hers?_

Jane touched the small drawing with her fingers, a fascinated air in her touch. 

_And this is what I wished to have. This young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell. Look at the difference. Compare those clear eyes with those balls of fire and rage. Look at the difference. And judge me._

A sob crawled up through Jane's throat. How wrong she had been? To be deceived so—to think that he had loved her for herself. No, no, no. He had not. He could not. She was fated ever to be alone. What else could this mean? In her mind, the image of her lover began to grow thin and transparent. He was no longer the same. That thought of him no longer was whole, rich and lovely. Now, it was sickly. Her love, her heart quivered and trembled at the blow. 

_They had tied her to a chair, bound with cords of grey and red. I stared at her. Who was this? Who was the imposter? It was not her. My own garb seemed a mockery, a farce. Jane Rochester could never be now—never. When she calmed, finding herself unable to move, she raised her eyes to mine. And I stared back. Our gaze never parted until Mr. Rochester came and laid his hand on my shoulder. _

There were no tears. As Jane gazed at the drawing, she could not conjure the strength to weep. The lies weighed down on her soul. With a quick but exhausted gesture, she brushed the drawing off the table and onto the floor. As it fluttered softly down, Jane laid her head on her arms—a flood of thought, of memory and heartache. 

"I am lost. I am lost." She whispered into her arms. 

In her mind, a rushing of water sounded. She pictured herself in a woods, a flash flood of water flowing and surrounding her skirts. In resignation, she looked around at the rising water. There was no escape. The water was claiming her. It churned dark around her waist, rising, rising. Would she call out for help? No. There was none. She stood, waiting for the water to come. And at length, she disappeared under the waves into silence. 

So too, Jane's chamber fell into a tomblike stillness—Jane Rochester was dead.

--

When the hall had quieted and the intruders had left, Rochester quickly made his way to her chamber. His hands gripped tightly as he moved swiftly through the corridor. No one was about. All was still and empty. 

Reaching her door, he paused to catch his breath. How was she? Was she weeping? How had she borne it? 

He remembered how her face had changed in an instant from full, bright and happy to pale, wan and frozen. Her hand had been cold when he had led her to the attic; she seemed to turn to ice before him in that inner chamber as he explained all. Not once had she looked at him while in that prison. No. She had been watching _her._ With what thoughts? With what thoughts? He longed to know and comfort. 

For a long while, he waited in silence, listening for a sound, a sob. Anything. 

But nothing came.

Soon, he set a chair at her door, waiting in weariness for his bride to return once more to his arms. 

Although he thought of it, he did not grieve. To him, their future had not changed. She would be angry—yes, she would burn with a fire—but he knew and thought that her passion would cool eventually. Then, he would love her; he would solace her in his embrace, and together, they would escape. 

But nothing came. No sound. No movement. 

He grew impatient. What could she be doing? Was she well? She would not try a desperate act in her sorrow? Thoughts surrounded him in a chaotic mass. Where was Jane Eyre?

Time passed. 

He remained at his post. 

But nothing came.

Finally, just as his worry and fear began to overtake him, he heard a stirring of skirts behind the door. As he waited in silence, footsteps, light and slow, moved about the chamber. What was she doing? With a rhythmic quality, the steps began to come towards the door; he sat alert for her emergence.

The grating lock turned, and the door slowly opened. She was coming at last. 

--

Mist hung low in the morning, chill and grey. Sunlight had just begun to streak the eastern sky, when a small figure exited a side door of the old hall. Grasping a package to her breast, Jane made her way to the gates, treading a determined and cold path away from Thornfield. 

Half way down the drive, she turned and looked back to the hall and its gothic battlements, tinged with mist. Her eye roved the upper stories, seeking. 

Then, she saw it. A lonely figure at one of the windows watched her. It was _She_.

Frozen to the spot, transfixed, Jane stared at the woman in the window; only her head could be seen in the morning light, but Jane recognized the dark features. 

How might the heart feel at such a meeting? Might there be rage, anger, fury, and fire? 

No. No fire. 

In Jane's heart that morning, there was only ice. At last, frost had stilled her blood, and passion was spent. A formal feeling iced her features; after great pain, indeed, such formality was the only survival. 

Remembrance of the hour roused Jane, and she swiftly turned from the figure at the window, treading quickly out the gate into the mist. At each step, the ice cracked and strained her heart. But she would not yield nor turn around. She did not see that solitary face call out to her behind the glass and a hand reach out to her against the pane. 

--

He had thrown himself upon the floor, wracked with sobs, trembling in his grief. Gripping her fingers against her skirts, Jane had gained the door, but at the threshold she paused, unable to move.

"O, Jane! Jane!" He cried wildly into his arms.

Slowly, she turned to look at him. In a moment, she returned to his side, her arms held out. 

"O God bless you!" She grasped his shoulders and lifted him to face her. Tears stained his grim face.

"my dear, dear master!" She felt her throat constrict and tears rising. She wiped a tear from his cheek with her finger—his cheek was hot. 

"Reward you!" His arms stole around her in an aimless air as she spoke into his ear. 

"Direct you and solace you!" Her voice broke with tears, as she kissed his cheek tenderly. 

"May God reward you for your past kindness to me." She pulled away and smoothed his dark hair from his temples with her hand. Opening his eyes, he stared at her face, quite close, in love and despair. 

"Little Jane's love," he shuddered out, grasping her tighter. "would have been my best reward!" 

At his words, Jane's loving eye began to flash with a fear, with a danger. She must escape his embrace—that moment. Subtly, she made to detach herself from his arms.

"Without it my heart is broken!" He wept and pressed his face to the hollow of her neck. 

Almost in rebellion to his words, she grew still, almost frigid. But he heeded it not. Instead, he kissed her collarbone softly, muttering in a strange voice:

"But Jane will give me her love! Yes. Nobly! Generously!" He caught her face with his hands and pressed his lips to hers. A panic seized her as he grasped her tightly. She must get away! She must! Writhing under his touch, she struggled to be free. At last, she broke from his arms and ran out the door. For a few steps, he pursued her, running after her with frantic breaths.

But soon, an ice fell over Thornfield and its occupants; a chilled silence descended with a potent power. And all were still. 


	12. Chapter 12 The Moors

A woman wanders over the desolate moors. Miles from any road, she ambles over streams and rocks, towards the greater cliffs of the west. The sky, dark with cloud, threatens a cold rain over her head as she walks. Softly, softly, she moves—ever so with a forsaken air. Now and then, she glances to the sky, nervous at the heavy storm that approaches. But she only glances and soon her gaze returns to the vast moorland before her. Bleak and barren, it stretches out to the horizon, a vast wasteland of pale green and dusty purple. And she, she is alone here.

The woman looks as if her attire had once been proper—a tidy grey gown with a white tucker. But now, the wind has ruffled its once prim neatness, and thorns have shred panels of the skirt. Mud dapples along the petticoat, and coats her small boots with a grey brown. She shivers and her lips, a greenish blue, tremble in the wind. Long dark hair streams in the wind out behind her as she walks. The gusts of chill wind dandle with the strands. Her bonnet was forsook long ago—accidentally dropt into some crag in the rocks. Her face, streaked with tear stains and dirt, gazes off before her in an absent way. She does not seem to think, or feel, or dread. No. She is only silent as she makes her careful way through the lonely moors.

This is Jane Eyre.

Night comes on fast.

In a moment of clarity, Jane gazes around her to find a shelter from the storm that billows just ahead of her. Great sheets of rain fall in the distance and come ever nearer. But, just beyond a small rise, there stands a lone tree in the midst of the bare moor. A lonely figure, its branches twist and writhe in the wind and the roots, exposed to the elements seem to grapple with the ground for a hold. Here shall be her resting place.

Slowly, she approaches the tree and sits down amongst the roots. Wrapping her soiled cloak close around her thin shoulders, she leans her head against the trunk and watches as the storm approaches.

It comes. It comes steadily forward. Like death, it comes.

_What she shall I do Jane? Where turn for a companion? Where turn for hope?_

"Indeed," she mutters to herself at the memory. "Where turn for hope Edward? Where? …Do as I do, look to God. O …God. Where is God?"

_Where is God? What is God, Helen? _

_My Maker and yours. _

_Are you going home Helen?_

_Yes._

The storm advances, and drops of rain begin to fall around her.

"Where is God?" she says aloud into the wind.

The rain comes on harder.

Try though they might, the branches cannot shield Jane from the great torrents of water.

In her mind, she thinks of old stories, of Bessie by the fire.

"_There is a story," Bessie said, "about a great storm and a king who got caught out in that storm."_

"_Tell me Bessie, do."_

"_Well, Miss Jane, this man had lived a long time and had secured a great and wealthy kingdom—the land was plentiful, and its people happy. _

_Now, this old king had three daughters, two wicked and one good. When the king asked his daughters to speak of their love for him in order for them to gain a dowry, the first two sisters shamelessly flattered the king, with honeyed words and vain promises. But the good little daughter refused to flatter her father as her wicked sisters had done. Instead, she told him in very plain words of her love. This displeased her father greatly, and he banished her from the land._

_The other sisters plotted against their father, since the good little daughter was gone, and contrived to strip their king of his land, knights, and wealth. And they succeeded. In a few short weeks, the king had lost everything he held dear. The shock of this betrayal was too much for the old king. He began to go mad. _

_One night, the sisters grew so tiresome of his presence that they threw the king out of the castle and into the path of a great storm. Never had there been such a storm before—with its great winds and rain. And the king was left out in that wild torrent the whole night." (1)_

_Bessie paused. _

"_What happens to the king Bessie?"_

_Bessie only stared into the fire._

"_I do not think you will like the end of the story Miss Jane."_

"_What is the end? What is the end of the story?"_

"What is the end of the story?" Jane whispers into the dark of the rain.

She is soaked already and shivers in the cold. With a gentle sigh, she closes her eyes and curls up underneath her cloak—to sleep, to die.

"I have lost all." Her voice trembles in the wind. "What is the end of the story, Bessie?"

--

Dreams come. _In her sleep, she dreamt that she was on the moors, painting the magnificent scene before her. She sat at her easel with her paints in her left hand and her brush in her right. The sky was a hazy orange as the sun was falling into the west. The moors pulsed with color and brilliance—a poor man's treasure. Birds circled high and wide in the air, their voices falling faintly to the earth._

_There was no breeze; all was warm and still, a lovely summer day. The world seemed to expand in beauty. In response to this sweet culmination of the day, she painted. With long strokes and intrepid colors, her brush swept the canvas._

_And then she heard it._

_Footsteps behind her—a gait that she knew so well._

_It was he._

_In a moment, she threw aside her painting tools and turned to him as he approached._

"_Jane!" He was smiling and laughing in the summer haze._

_With bold steps, he came to her side and swept her into his arms in a warm embrace. She clung to him with deep happiness. _

"_Edward! Where have you been? I have been waiting for you."_

_He brushed her cheek with his fingers._

"_I was coming the whole time. You did not see me. You were painting. Now, let me look at your handy work."_

_She led him to her easel where her painting stood in the golden light. He surveyed the vivid hues and her daring strokes. All the passion and life of summer was in her painting. It was lovely and lively. Hardly a conventional pretty little landscape, her painting caught the heightened beauty and zeal of the day. More, it translated the passion and beauty of the painter. _

"_Well, sir. What do you think?"_

_He paused then turned his bright eyes to her face. Taking her hand in his, he drew her close and smiled._

"_Jane. How can I express it? I see you in this. This is you, this piece of art. All this brightness, life and color. This. This. This strange and beautiful soul that is within you—the spirit, the purity and clarity. My darling!"_

_He kissed her suddenly with a fervent sigh. _

"_My darling…mine…Jane Eyre…say that you are mine."_

_She lifted her head to gaze upon his dear face._

_But then, Jane felt a cold breeze suddenly on her cheek. She shivered. Still, she stared into Edward's eyes. Her throat suddenly constricted. She could not speak. A panic seized her. In her mind, she was crying out that she loved him. But her voice was gone. O she must speak! Where was her voice?_

_His face grew more concerned._

"_Jane? Jane dearest…what is it? Your lips are blue! …Tell me!"_

_She felt the wind, steady and cold, coming on. It chilled her heart. _

"_Jane!" he took her face in his hands and kissed her, trying to warm her lips._

_In desperation, she clung to him to shelter against the cold. His arms stole around her frame. _

"_Where are you Jane?" He whispered to her. "Where are you?" _

_She felt her fingers freezing; the wind blew and swirled around them. The sun had set, and a great storm had come in its place. _

"_Speak to me! Jane! Jane!" He cried. "Do not leave me! Jane! I never meant to deceive you! You cannot leave me! Jane!" _

_Then a great hurricane of wind tore her from his arms and carried her frail body up into the air, up into the deep darkness of the clouds._

And with a bitter cry, she woke.

"Where is God?" She screamed to the weeping sky.

--

The moors. They are desolate. But still, they are beautiful. There is a certain glory in their vulnerability. In one sense, they are barren. In another sense, they are full of life. Water, earth, and air mingle there in a transcendent union of elements. They are the place of mystery and of legend. They are the place of struggle.

As the desert was to the patriarchs, so to do the moors figure as such a wrestling ground for souls.

For there, the sinner sees his sins; and there does he seek forgiveness.

(1) Shakespeare's "King Lear"


	13. Chapter 13 Dreams of Ice

The meager choir weakly let their voices rise into the chilled fall air of the church. No sun shone out to lighten the heavy ethos of the congregation. Cold and grey, the church and its people huddled in the valley as if it sought to shrink away from the world. Cloistered by brush and trees, the brittle church of stone stood thin against the autumn winds that swirled and moaned about it. Inside, the children, shod in black cloaks, shivered in their seats, trying with all their might to remain still. The adults trembled inwardly, and did not show it. They all waited and listened to the choir. The parson was still to speak. Only after that could they return home to their meek hearths.

Amongst these sat Jane. With a tranquil gravity, she listened to the choir sing their hymns, as she stared out a slim window at the distant moors. Her face, a ghostly white in the blue-grey of the morning, looked weary and void. With a dim eye and a pale lip, she listened to the hymn ring out meekly through the rafters of the church.

"The Lord is my Shepard,

I shall not want.

He maketh me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me beside still waters.

He restores my soul."

She closed eyes a moment. No one saw her anguished expression—not even Diana or Mary.

_Where turn for hope?_

_Do as I do. Trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven and hope to meet again there!_

_Jane! It would not be wicked to love me!_

"He leads me in the paths of righteousness, for his name's sake."

Their voices were so paltry against the whistling autumn wind.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Your rod and staff comfort me…"

Jane opened her eyes and gazed towards the pulpit, looming high and dark over the congregation. It was empty. St. John had not yet given his sermon. He sat just below, silent and still as a marble statue. His gaze was lifted to the heavens as he listened to the choir.

"…My cup runs over.

Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life:

And I will dwell in the house of the lord forever."

Jane watched his expressionless face as he sang out the "amen," his eyes returning to earth. What had he sought in the rafters? Was he looking for God?

_Where is God?_

At last, the last strains of the organ died out, and St. John rose to climb the stairs to the pulpit. The congregation shuffled in their seats, attempting to warm their stiff muscles from the cold.

He looked ever so grim as he laid his bible upon the pulpit and opened it to his selected passage. A moment of silence—he kept his eyes bowed.

Then, with a sudden fire, he raised his eyes to the gathering before him and spoke.

"My brothers and sisters! Be of good cheer! The blessings of Jesus Christ be upon each of you!" He gave a bright smile and gazed upon the congregation with a strange and hungry zeal.

"And also upon you." Was the joint reply. Jane stammered out the words.

"My friends, we have a long winter ahead of us." He began. "Today we feel it in our very bones. But I tell you, it is the winds of change that blow so hard against our doors and windows. Change. God calls us, each, to bend to his will—to change and sacrifice. And my friends this winter that comes upon us so suddenly is a symbol of that change."

Jane watched his eyes flash and his stern lips quiver with an excitement that she never saw at Moorhouse. Never. There he was withdrawn, bitter, and silent. But here, here, he came alive. But, she did not know if this lively brightness in him was only a mask. Where was his real self? She had never seen it.

"The change, my friends, occurs in us. Now, what do I speak of? Some one tell me." He beckoned to the shivering crowd. Silence.

A meek voice answered him from the back,

"Sir, do you speak of our livelihoods, our crops and our sheep?"

"No, indeed, Mr. Wilson. I speak of a much more precious economy. Can anyone tell me?"

Jane felt a wind rise from within her: she spoke out.

"Sir. You speak of souls."

All turned to look upon her. A woman had never raised her voice in that place before. They stared in horror. What would St. John do at such a breech?

His face for a moment chilled, then with a brief laugh, he said,

"Miss Eyre. You speak rightly. It is of souls that I address."

With boldness, she stared back at him, though his eye betrayed anger. Then, as he resumed his sermon, she lowered her gaze to her wringing hands.

_Where do the wicked go after they die, little girl?_

_They go to hell._

_And what is hell?_

_A pit full of fire._

With a sigh, Jane whispered to herself,

"I was wrong. Hell is not fire. It is ice."

--

In the evenings, after Jane, Diana and Mary, and sometimes St. John, had sat up talking merrily, they would all retreat to their own solitary rooms to sleep. But Jane, often times, would remain awake till midnight, staring out her small window to the distant moors and hills. Sometimes the moonlight would illuminate the fields in the distance and shine down upon her upturned face. Other times, the moon would be hid behind a cloud, and the world would fade into an inky darkness.

This Sunday evening was no different. Sitting in her thin nightgown at the window, Jane whispered quietly into the dark.

"My God. May you bless him. Keep him safe from harm and …wrong. …O God. I do not understand. I do not. I …"

Tears.

"I do not…want to suffer anymore."

She laid her head upon her arms and closed her eyes, allowing tears to slip down into her lap.

"Father in heaven…you say that you are my father…help me…o help me to endure this…I cannot."

_My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me._

Whispering, she mutters, "All the days of my life."

--

_With a damp cheek and a glistening eye, she ran through the briars and trees of a wood. The sky was fading fast into night, and owls cried out through the branches. They sounded like lost souls. A fear, a doubt plagued her mind as she ran through the thick gatherings of trees. The path had been overgrown. Was it here? Was it there? She paused a moment to catch her bearings; then off once more, madly running. Many times she had trod this road to Thornfield—across the fields then through the woods. She was coming close now._

_At length, she stumbled out of the trees and onto the lawn grass of the orchard. In the distance, Thornfield loomed, lonely and shadowy in the twilight. No lights in the windows tonight. Perhaps all had gone to bed. _

_For a moment, she hesitated, gazing upon the gothic battlements. _

_Perhaps, he was not here. _

"_Well, I must try." She whispered to herself. _

_Then, with a shift pace, she moved through the orchard to the great glass doors of the main entrance. Taking deep breaths, she peered in through the glass, a stranger in her traveling garb. No movement. No light. _

_Her hand tried the door handle. It was locked. _

_Was no one here?_

_Where was he? Was he gone?_

_She stared inside, trying hard to see in the potent darkness. _

_Nothing._

_Then, suddenly, a face—a woman's face—appeared directly on the other side of the glass. It was the madwoman's face. _

_Jane started back with a cry of fear and disgust._

_The face only grinned a leery smile and slapped one of the window panes with her hand. Again and again, the woman inside pound on the windows—faster and faster. _

_In a panic, Jane backed away from the doors. Surely the glass would break._

_She spun away from the horrid vision in the glass and tore out into the gardens. With tears, she flew from her. _

"_No. No." she cried aloud. "O he is gone!"_

_Blindly, she ran through the orchards, terrified—not only at the fearsome face that she had seen, but also at the hideous prospect that he had fled Thornfield._

_Soon, she found herself at the old chestnut tree—its limbs gaunt and black. It towered above her with its charred remains, a ghost in the twilight shadow. _

_Exhausted, she threw herself upon the roots, gasping for air. _

"_O Edward! Edward! Where are you?"_

_A soft breeze answered. _

_Then, in the distance, she heard a faint call._

"_Jane! Jane!"_

_It was far away and she could not distinguish the voice as she lay on the ground. _

_Raising her bleary eyes, she squinted to see in the growing dark. Then, she saw it. A figure, his figure, moved swiftly towards her. In a sudden rapture, she rose and ran to him, tears falling fast. With all her strength, she flung her arms about his neck and gripped him with a desperate air as he lifted her from the ground in his embrace._

"_I have come back Edward. I could not do it! I shall die if I cannot have you! O forgive me!" She wept into his collar. He said nothing, but only held her close as if he never intended to release her. _

_Then she felt a change in his arms. He grew suddenly rigid. Opening her eyes to look upon his dear face, she cried out to see that her lover was gone. He had turned into the charred, broken chestnut tree. His arms no longer held her—it was the branches. And she was no longer kissing his cheek, but the rough bark of the blackened trunk. _

And with a gasp of terror, Jane woke from her sleep, jolting awake in her bed. The moon had set, and all was dark—ever so dark.

--

The next morning rose bright and warm—an antithesis to the former chills of Sunday.

St. John always rose early. With a deliberate melancholy, he washed, dressed, and trod downstairs to begin his morning devotions.

He took a distinct pleasure in his solitary mornings. To be so alone—only he and God—restored his being. The masses, the crowds exhausted him. But to sit alone in the mornings was a balm to his wounds.

Sitting in his usual spot by the window, St. John opened his bible and stooped near the page to read. But his reverie was soon disturbed.

A flash of movement outside the window caught his eye. He looked.

Jane, dressed in her plain grey dress and shawl, sat outside in the morning light on the distant hill that stood near Moorhouse, a pencil and sheet of paper in her hand. She was drawing—frantically, attempting to capture a vision in her mind. Her face looked strained and pale. A passion in her eye told a thousand tales.

For a moment, St. John felt a spark of curiosity to go and see her work.

But then, a stoicism stole over his features, and he glared at the small figure on the hill. He must not bend. He must not depart from his rituals. He must not.

He returned to his reading and forgot all about Jane as she sat on the hill.

His mind returned to Deuteronomy.


	14. Chapter 14 The Rose of the World

"Good morning St. John." Jane chimed merrily as she met him in the parlor. He loomed over his devotions and did not heed her voice or her cluttering about. As she removed her bonnet and cloak, her smile faded at his austerity. Soon, her face lost entirely its early-morning, rosy shade, and an icy pallor stole over her cheeks. In silence, she sat at the opposite end of the room and began to examine the final documents that secured her position as teacher at the new school.

Things were changing at Moorhouse. A subtle and silent tension was ever in the air.

Diana and Mary were to leave soon—to earn a living as governesses—and Jane would soon go to the tiny cottage in the town nearby the school.

Moorhouse would be shut up until the holidays.

The prospect of teaching revived Jane's spirit into action. She would not languish or shrivel away. Life must, would, continue. It was bound to do so.

But, as she sat in the heavy silence, Jane felt the oppression of separation at hand. Her sisters, not of blood but of heart, would leave her. She almost wished she could go with them as governess.

Governess. The word called up ghosts, images, words. A dark beautiful face, a scornful laugh, a whisk of silk—all came back. She recalled the older days.

In an absent and unaware way, Jane muttered aloud,

"Blanche."

Immediately, St. John raised his eyes.

He saw her distant look and her troubled face. He saw all, but he did not pity.

Instead, his face hardened.

"Good morning, Miss Elliot." He said very deliberately. She started at his voice.

"Ah. St. John I already bid you good morning when I came in." She smiled.

"I know. I heard you." He coolly stared at her bright expression.

Growing nervous under his penetrating gaze, Jane lowered her eyes, then with alacrity rejoined.

"Do you go to see Miss Oliver today?"

She had found his weak point. Eyes flashing suddenly, he started from his chair and with a slam shut up his bible.

"No." His voice was painfully cold. "No I am not bound to visit the Oliver household today. Other members of the congregation demand my attention."

Jane gave a coy smile. If Diana or Mary had been present she would have laughed at him. But to be alone with him caused her spirit and wit to shrink little by little. His presence was a snow to her soul. She grew numb day by day.

Hands behind his back, St. John paced slowly about the room.

"Miss Elliot, there is a question I have wanted to ask you. May I ask it now?"

"Certainly."

"It is this: the deacons of the church who are aiding me in the creation of our new school require a history from you. In short, I wish to know if you can recount your parentage? Who was your father?"

Jane tilted her head in curiosity.

"My father?"

"Yes."

"Well I…I was only a small child when both my parents died. I do not remember them at all."

"Ah. I see. I do apologize for the impertinence of my question then. I will inform the deacons of the matter. I do apologize." His eyes were cold like steel.

"It is all well St. John. I no longer pine for kindred."

"Why?"

"Because I have found new friends, who care for my wellbeing, and love me, I think, as those in this house can. That is sufficient to sustain me. To be loved."

"Loved?" St. John raised an eyebrow. "Are not human beings fallible? Is not their love so tainted?"

"Indeed, human beings are fallible. I am, so are you. That very fact makes love so much the sweeter; for in its very fallibility then, human's execute the most divine thing that we may do on this earth—love each other. No. When we truly love, ….that love is not tainted. It is heaven on earth."

"I do not agree with you. Surely, surely, divine love comes from the divine father and him only. Your father, Jane. Your heavenly father."

"But the instrument St. John…" her face chilled a moment.

_But the instrument, Jane. God, through the instrument, performs his redemptive work. …You are my good angel, my better self._

"What is it?" St. John asked at her halting speech.

"It…it is nothing. I am afraid that the committee will be disappointed with my lack of history."

St. John ground his teeth in his usual way when he was loath to answer a query.

"We merely express a genuine interest in your past, Miss Elliot. You came to us so thoroughly alone, your past a mystery. But now, I ascertain that your only parentage was from and must continue to be from God."

"I do not know…I do not understand you."

"No matter." He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "You must heed the voice of God, Jane, as you would a father. Remember, the winds of change and sacrifice come closer every day."

She did not reply.

--

As Jane walked home from the schoolhouse, she sang a hymn in her head, the lilt of the melody matching her pace.

All people that on earth do dwell,  
sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;  
him serve with fear, his praise forth tell,  
come ye before him, and rejoice.

The Lord, ye know, is God indeed;  
without our aid he did us make;  
we are his folk, he doth us feed,  
and for his sheep he doth us take. (1)

The children had sung out of tune, but it did not matter. Their hearts had sung gladly; Jane was sure of that. She remembered when, at Lowood, she had learned that song. Then, it had been a mockery. But now, even in the midst of a cold winter existence, Jane felt a strange comfort in the words.

"The Lord is God indeed, who does protect that which is his." She whispered to herself as she neared the cottage. "Edward."

A cool mist was rolling in from the north that afternoon, and though it was only four o'clock, the valley was cast in a hazy shadow. As her hand laid upon the frosted wicker gate that lead to her meager house, she heard a fair, musical voice call out to her across the fog.

"Miss Elliot!"

Jane turned to see a tall, angelic figure ascending from the snowy hill road—a dainty fairy-like face, surrounded by golden curls.

"Ah. Miss Oliver!" Jane smiled generously. "How are you? How come you to be out on this night?"

Rosamond Oliver came close and pressed Jane's hand warmly.

"Well, Jane" Rosamond began. "I am on a tardy mission today. My father is hosting a Christmas party very soon and bid me take these invitations round to our neighbors. He likes to have things done in person you see. But, had I not been preoccupied in the shops down below, I should have delivered these invitations much more swiftly. The Misses Jewkes have received a new shipment of linens from London in their shop and I…Well you know me…I am a hopeless materialist." She laughed merrily.

Jane smiled warmly and gave a small laugh, "Yes. I have heard of it."

"Well, I must deliver these before I get home, or, indeed, my father shall be angry with me." Rosamond glowed in the hazy air with a happy accent.

"So, then, here Miss Elliot, is your invitation. And…" She paused. "One for Mister Rivers as well, if he will come. I know he does not like parties but perhaps you might persuade him to join us. We miss him so at home."

"I shall give it to him gladly. But I cannot guarantee that any of my words will persuade Mister Rivers to do anything. Perhaps, you may speak with him. I am sure he would heed you rather than me."

Rosamond's merry face paled a moment: "O I do not feel I have any more influence than you, Miss Elliot….But _you_ will come surely."

"I…I will come to please you Miss Oliver, though I do not like parties. I have very little experience of them."

"O but ours are very merry, and it is all folk from the village that you know—folk from the church. Do come."

Jane assented with a gentle air; then bidding each other good night, they parted ways.

As she turned her key in the lock of the door, Jane muttered to herself: "Rosamond, Rose-of-the-world."

--

Every night, when six o'clock struck, Jane locked the front door of her little cottage, and sat down before the solitary hearth. In that stillness, as she stared into the dancing flames, thoughts drifted away from that tranquil, mist-covered valley. Almost like a witch, she gazed into the fire, an incantation glowing in her eyes. But her thoughts escaped that place towards a beloved destination—Thornfield.

In that time at the hearth, her general daytime tranquility melted away; once her soul escaped that cottage. Each night, it fled and sought respite on the wind that could carry her back—to him. During the day, she was bright and almost merry; but at night, the façade gave way to a release of fire from her soul—rage, grief, sorrow, and love.

Her soul, her mind, would wander back to Thornfield as she sat, recalling the old paths, the intricate hallways, and the grand rooms. And her mind would relive moments—precious and distant.

Before the fire, she would remain, her hands clenched to the arms of her chair, until the clock chimed out nine. Then, her soul would steal back into her frame and, with a sigh, she would rise, dress for bed, and kneel before the window of her chamber.

Every night her prayers were different. But each night, they were for him.

A benediction—a plea—and a blessing.

Then, with shivers, she would crawl underneath her covers and fall asleep.

But never was her sleep tranquil.

In dreams, she stole back to Thornfield, again and again—searching and hoping.

And that winter night, her dreams bore her back to scenes of Thornfield that ever haunted her thoughts—not necessarily things as they had been but things as they might have been.

--

With a grim expression, she watched him leave down the usual path away from the cottage. His back was stiff and his hands clenched, as if he knew she was watching him. With a sigh, Jane looked back down to the delicate portrait that lay before her—Rosamond.

It was a darling little portrait, not due to her artistic skill necessarily, but rather due to the pure beauty of the subject. Rosamond Oliver's physiognomy stunned all who came to know her. As Jane gazed at her representation, her mind recalled other portraits she had painted—Blanche, a lady of accomplished rank. She also remembered the sketches she had done of Mrs. Fairfax and Adele in the gardens—quaint and tranquil. More, she recalled the portrait of a grim, stern masculine face with piercing dark eyes—a beloved face.

In her reverie, a flood of images poured over her consciousness. Visions of moments long past, precious and warm, overtook her.

_He had been so kind to me. He was ever kind and gentle. _She mused at happy memories—of Edward, drawing her close and tweaking her ear, a laugh in his throat.

_Sprite! Elf! Wicked changeling! …Jane. He kissed her cheek though she resisted in jest. Desire mingled with contentment in the moment—a sense of a bright future and of present bliss._

But, as all her daydreams did, the images of happiness and union melted away to dislocation, to abandonment and to bitter solitude. He would disappear from her arms, or fall into a deep darkness. And she would sense a creeping madness in her soul at the loss—a trembling that began in her core and spread quickly, so that her frame would quake with the anxiety.

_Alone. Alone. Alone. _Her mind would chant savagely.

In her thoughts—jumbled and quick—she seemed to comprehend the margins of her own existence.

_I have ever been so. Alone. Alone. Alone. _

_John Reed with the book. The window sill. The moors. Helen. She is dead. Her hand was so white. And cold. It was bitter cold. It felt like marble. The halls, marble floors, of Thornfield. I heard Grace Poole in the stair way. What does she do here? Alone in the night. Only I in the deep darkness. He is not there. He is not there. Alone. _

_You have a father Jane. No. No father. I am an orphan in the world. Rose of the world. You have a heavenly father Jane. You must sacrifice. Sacrifice. Rose of the world. _

The voice in her head had become St. John's.

Grasping the table to balance herself, Jane breathed heavily as if her heart convulsed, and she could not breathe. Slowly, she began to return to herself. Her mind settled—an equilibrium regained control. She wiped her cheeks that had been wet with unnoticed tears.

With a quiet air, she put away her few painting tools, not her own but borrowed from Diana. At a slow but deliberate pace, she tidied the room and settled by the fire to keep warm against the chill evening that was falling fast.

--

_St.John could not sleep. He lay in his bed as still as an iceberg underneath his snowy sheets, but sleep refused to come. All he could sense, all he could envision, was that sweet Rose, the portrait of Rosamond that Jane had painted. The pencils strokes and gentle watercolors had caught Rosamond's character exactly, her spirit, her soft vivacity. O his thoughts plagued him and his heart throbbed deep within his silent and still outer shell. He did not move at all, but in his mind he pursued Rosamond over the moors, calling her name wildly. _

_In the night, an owl called out with a distant screeching, and at the noise, St. John bolted up from his bed. If any one had seen him, they would have thought that he was in a trance. For with a blank look, he wrapped his coat around himself and deliberately walked down the stairs and out of the house into the night. He took no lantern. It did not matter. His feet knew the path well—the path to Jane's cottage. _

_**(1) William Kethe (d. 1594**_


	15. Chapter 15 Sketches

_St. John could not sleep. He lay in his bed as still as an iceberg underneath his snowy sheets, but sleep refused to come. All he could sense, all he could envision, was that sweet Rose, the portrait of Rosamond that Jane had painted. The pencils strokes and gentle watercolors had caught Rosamond's character exactly, her spirit, her soft vivacity. O his thoughts plagued him and his heart throbbed deep within his silent and still outer shell. He did not move at all, but in his mind he pursued Rosamond over the moors, calling her name wildly. _

_In the night, an owl called out with a distant screeching, and at the noise, St. John bolted up from his bed. If any one had seen him, they would have thought that he was in a trance. For with a blank look, he wrapped his coat around himself and deliberately walked down the stairs and out of the house into the night. He took no lantern. It did not matter. His feet knew the path well—the path to Jane's cottage._

_He seemed to pass through the dark like a spirit, silent and noble in his carriage. At length, he reached the tiny cottage and quietly stole up to one of the windows. Peering inside, he saw that Jane was not asleep. Instead of being in bed, she sat at an easel, painting by dim candle light. Her brush moved slowly and deliberately over the canvas before her. St. John squinted to see what the painting was._

_A delicate face, surrounded by flowing curls that covered the head and shoulders—with bright eyes, full of merriment, the face smiled at him as if aware of his gaze. To be sure, it was Rosamond that graced the canvas. _

_Watching in the stillness, St. John felt turmoil within him as his mind, his reason, struggled for control._

_No foolish desire. The foolish do not inherit the kingdom of heaven. _

_Suddenly, passing through the walls like a spirit, he came to Jane's side as she painted. She did not start or cry out. Instead, she stood back from him and let him view the portrait closer. _

_He examined it carefully. _

_Then, with a deliberate hand, he took the canvas; he took the paints and brushes, and threw them into the embers of the hearth. _

"_Be gone from me temptation." He whispered as the fire flared up anew. _

_With a sigh, almost of relief, he turned to Jane. Her face was passive and meek, a quiet smile on her lips. _

_St. John smiled at her, "I have conquered it, Jane. I have."_

_She nodded with a quiet air. _

_Silence stole over the room as the flames claimed paints, brushes and Rosamond._

_The two stood facing each other in the quiet, the moonlight shining in through a casement. _

With a start, St. John woke from his dream.

Sunlight poured in through his window upon his bed, illuminating the crisp white sheets. Breathing out a sigh, St. John pondered his dramatic vision. With a furrowed brow, he prayed aloud.

"Dear God, what does it mean? What? I cast her into the flames. Rosamond. Rosamond. . . Then there was only Jane left. . . Only Jane. . .Jane."

Suddenly, his face brightened, not with joy but with conviction. A vision, a message of direction and of mission was his. He understood.

"Ah. Lord, you have brought her here to join me. There was only Jane left. I see. I see. She is meant for me."

--

The Christmas party was ever so merry.

Folk from the church seemed determined to stamp out the cold of winter with their dances and ails. Reels and jigs sounded into the night as the party joined in celebration. The Oliver's had decorated their drawing room with holly and ivy, and a great roaring fire blazed in the hearth. Everything was bright, joyous, and alive, even in the winter. Laughter rolled about the room in waves, as the folk enjoyed each others company.

Jane sat in a corner watching the festivities with mirth, a sketch book in her lap. Her pencil traced images of happy faces, of delicious foods on the tables, and of elegant Christmas ornamentation. She had never partaken in such a happy gathering.

The air was full of life and of joy. Smiles played across Jane's face as she watched the masses of people—the dancing couples and the conversing groups. All seemed happy. Her eye roved the crowd. Rosamond stood, tall and elegant, in a deep green gown, a vision of Christmas beauty. Laughter rang out from her lips as she clung to the arm of a stranger, her companion for the night.

Jane's eye then immediately went to St. John. He sat at the opposite side of the room, deftly conversing with old Mr. Wilson. He did not dance that night; he merely watched the merriment. Their eyes met for a moment, and St. John smiled weakly at Jane as she sat, pencil suspended over paper.

They had become much better friends in the last few weeks. Jane noted that after she had shown him the painting of Rosamond, very soon after, he had treated her with less severity, and will a deal more geniality. He was not fond of her—that was evident. But he had allowed a pragmatic kind of sympathy towards her to seep through his usual coldness. This new bond encouraged Jane in her post. She felt no longer like she could not entirely measure up to the parson's standards of excellence. Rather, his growing gentleness assured her that she was indeed doing well at her post. He approved of her.

After excusing himself from Mr. Wilson, St. John came near to Jane, peering at her sketches.

"You _do_ take delight in these scribbling sketches, Jane." He mused, absently.

"Yes" she laughed. "I find it is a release for me more than a discipline. A dear friend of mine said once that my works were elflike, that I had no skill or science of drawing and paintings, but that I caught a semblance of an idea." In a moment, Jane was far away.

But St. John's voice returned her to the present.

"An idea? But you draw material things."

"O yes, but every being has a spirit in it. Something to be appreciated for its beauty—it is more than external beauty."

"Well, there I do agree that the spiritual has more merit than the material. Our world depends too heavily upon materialism. We forget that we serve a God of heaven, not a God of earth."

"But God created the earth."

"And he will create a new heaven and a new earth. We are meant for that time. Not for this one."

"Yet, we live now."

"We do."

"So should we not live in light of both worlds—enjoy the world now and live in hope of heaven after. Can it not be both?"

"Perhaps." A pause.

A peel of laughter rang out across the room. It disturbed the stream of conversation that had been flowing between them.

Later, as St. John and Jane left the gathering, large snow flakes fell in a beautiful silence over the valley. Jane held out her hand as they walked, catching delicate crystals on her glove.

She sadly smiled, "The world is too beautiful St. John not to enjoy it. The earth is the Lord's and all those in it. I would not ignore the beauty of it for anything."

He gave a slight smile, but remained silent.

--

That night a man sat slumped in front of a meek fire, wrapped in a wool blanket, shivering in the shadows of his arm chair. He sat there, alone, thoughts wandering. When the clock struck midnight, he gave a sigh. Then reaching his hand out, he felt clumsily down on the carpet. His face was blank and his eye unseeing. At last, his hand found the head of a great dog.

"A merry Christmas Pilot." The man whispered quietly, a catch in his throat, as he patted the dog's head gently.

Though his face flashed with sardonic tears, he wiped his cheeks and stifled a sob. He rose and felt his way to the window. Outside snow was falling in heavy flakes, but he could not see them. Listening to the silence, the man merely stood still, waiting, but he did not know what for.

That night, rather than dreaming of loss, he had a vision of his Jane, walking slowly through the falling snow, holding her hand out to catch the dainty snowflakes. A smile played over her face, and she repeatedly came to kiss him warmly in the midst of the white.

"You look cold Edward."

"I am not cold."

"You are. Your cheeks are frozen." She laid her face against his.

Together, they walked in the snow, hand in hand, making their way through a strange wilderness.

When Edward awoke the next morning, he found his window had come open in the night, and his room was dusted with snowflakes, even though there had been no wind.

_--_

When spring came, it carried with it a freshness and potency that roused the village from winter's sleep.

Jane continued to teach with alacrity and eagerness. But in the afternoons, she would take her easel and drawing supplies up to the moors and sit until the sun set, attempting to capture the scenes before her.

No one ever came to disturb her. No one noticed her really. Only St. John watched for her return from the hills from his window. He did not watch with fondness or approval. In fact, he often wished she would forgo her painting—it seemed superfluous. Instead, he watched her to guarantee her return, almost as a father would watch for a tardy or delinquent daughter. And each time he saw her form descending from the moors, he would mutter,

"Lord, I only await your timing. Tell me when I must acquire this helpmate. I only await your direction o Lord."

He determined that it should be soon. His mission was pending, and, in his dreams, India called out to him, as a child calls to its parent.


	16. Chapter 16 From the Ashes

With a tearful smile, she sat by the window of her small bedroom at Moorhouse, praising God from the depths of her soul. With a mighty hand, He had shown his sovereign will and power; _His_ will had been given to her over the wind, through the voice of nature.

"I will return. It is not damnation. God wills it so." She whispered to the moon that hung low in the sky.

She could not sleep. The voice—his voice—stirred in her soul still. Where was he? Asleep in the world, yet she had heard him call out to her.

_Jane! Jane! Jane!_

Their souls were linked. Their love proved eternal. She would return to see what had become of him.

At last, she laid herself down and slept fitfully, dreaming of reunion, hoping in acceptance.

God wills it so.

--

St. John woke early, and with a disturbed air, jotted down a note to slide under her door. She would not escape away to destruction so easily. No. St. John knew God willed their union. Or at least, he believed it to be the case. Yet, she had torn away from his arms, starting suddenly in a wild manner. Her eyes had flung round the room searching strangely. Then, she had cried out to something. There was no sound but her strange voice calling out. What had she seen? What had she heard? And she had fled him to rush out to the moors, calling out to "her love" as she went. A dark resentment clouded his brow as he gingerly pushed the note under her door and treaded away. She could not refuse him. He would claim her soon enough. In his mind, he decided to once more petition her, when he returned from his journey of a fortnight. And this time, he affirmed to himself that he would make sure the door of the house was securely closed.

With these thoughts, St. John left Moorhouse for his journey, taking the road to Whitcross. He did not look back to see Jane watch him leaving from her window. He did not think of anything but the road ahead of him—a grey-brown path, dried out from the early June rains.

--

A wonderous shock of feeling—indeed, it was so as she stood frozen, gazing upon the ruins of Thornfield. Her face, aghast with grief and shock, held back a scream and a cry. Where was he? Where was he?

Slowly, with grave steps, she entered the blackened ruin, wandering among the scorched halls and picking her way over debris in the great entry way—now broken and dead. No voices rang out. No joyous welcomes. Nothing but a dead silence. Scraps of paper swirled in the breeze. Quietly, with the air of a ghost, she moved through the shell of the old house. Her eyes went to where the tower should be—to where the madwoman should have been. It stood there—the only real part of the building not collapsed, beckoning Jane to approach. She did. With a cautious but hypnotized air, she approached the tower, gazing up to the dark windows that were glassless and empty. It was dark there. Peering into the staircase entrance, Jane saw that the stairs had collapsed in black smolders—no living soul could get up or down.

She was about to turn away, when the breeze blew a scrap of paper from inside the stairwell out to Jane's feet. Mindlessly, she bent to examine it. Then with a cry, she dropped the scrap, and it sailed away on the wind. Horror! Horror!

It had been a drawing from _her…a desperate and angry sketch…a rough portrait of a woman, wildly done, strangely proportioned…and in the corner with uneven and crooked letters, the name Eyre had been etched. _

Fear and amazement clouded Jane as she backed away from the tomblike entrance to the tower. The darkness of it seemed to grow and reach out for her. She almost heard a voice calling out, "Let me out! Let me out!"

In her mind, she envisioned Bertha Antoinetta rising from the ashes of Thornfield. She was pale and grey like an autumn sky and her hair streamed all over her head, flowing in the breeze. Slowly, her long, strong arms reached out for Jane; her face had no amity, no hatred, only sorrow. Jane stared at her vision, the being of wildness and fire. Bertha's very garment seemed to blow about as white flames. The woman's mouth opened as if she would speak. It opened, but no words came out.

She only stood there with her arms beckoning to Jane and her mouth wide as if she wished to swallow speech.

For a moment, Jane gazed at the vision, hesitant to leave or approach the strange woman. But then with a decisive voice, Jane spoke to the ghostly vision:

"I cannot come to you. I must go to him. I cannot speak for you. I can only speak for myself. ..I…I cannot be with you. I must be with him. He is myself."

At her words, the ghost started with a flash of passion, and moved towards Jane, arms still outstretched and a wordless moan issuing from her lips.

But Jane stepped back in fear and fled the mansion with quick steps, running back to the road that led back to the inn in the village. In her imagination, the ghost watched her departure, and with a sorrowful cry, retreated into the darkness of the tower.

--

The chaise jostled and rocked on the bumpy overgrown road to Ferndean.

Inside, Jane wrung her hands in anxious excitement. Each mile gained seemed to stretch the distance even further. But she reassured herself that with each turn of the wheel, the chaise bore her to her desired destination. Like Pamela from Richardson's novel, her childhood heroine from Bessie's tales, Jane was at last moving towards her desire, towards home, and towards love.

Night came on in the east—a solemn royal blue. It would be dark soon.

Eager, she alighted from the carriage to perform the last mile on foot. Her heart pounded heavily with each step. Home. Home. Home. Edward, I am coming home.

--

He sat, as was his custom, beside the hearth, a neglected fire smoldering and casting faint rays of ruddy gold on his face. His brow furrowed and his mouth grim, he stared into the nothingness before him—the darkness. In his mind, he pondered over the mysteries of the past few nights. A few evenings before, he had cried out in prayer and anguish to God, weeping at his window and calling out to his love as if she could hear. And in his sorrow, he had felt a breeze kiss his forehead and a voice return his passionate call. Surely her spirit had stirred and come to comfort him.

And last night he had a dream of her, running in a rain storm to meet him on a road that winded through a forest. He had dreamed of her plain, dear little face, dripping with rain and her long dark hair, streaming in the wind. She had seen him at a distance ahead of her on the road, and had called to him. She ran with arms stretched out to him and joy on her face. And he had caught her up in his arms, lifting her tiny frame from the ground, kissing her small face over and over. He had dreamed that her hands held his face fondly as he kissed her. Again and again, he whispered her name—joy spreading through every limb and fibre.

But then, his dream had grown dark. A wind, wild and cold, had blown up suddenly. And as he pulled away from her caresses, he saw that she was fading away, like an essence, like a ghost. His hands could not feel her anymore. She seemed like air and mist. He grew desperate and groped to catch hold of her again. But, with each of his grasps, she disappeared even faster, fading away like the fog at sunrise. At last, she had gone entirely. And he had been left alone in the forest.

These had been his dreams of late. These had always been his dreams since the fire.

With these disturbing thoughts, he stared into blackness, unwilling to sleep, to return to dreams; they only compounded upon his loss.

When would it end? This, this sorrow. With a sigh, he rang the cord for some candles. A distant crackle of thunder told him that the rain had begun to fall more soundly.

Maria entered, flustered.

"Yes, sir."

"Bring me a glass of water, Mary. And some candles, if you please."

"Yes, sir…uh."

"What is it?"

"There is a person here to see you Mr. Rochester, sir."

"Who is it?"

"They did not say sir."

"What is their business?"

"They did not say sir."

He sighed.

"Well, tell the visitor to send in their name and business. I may or may not see him."

Maria curtseyed, "Uh…Yes, sir."

He waited in silence. Who would disturb him here? Surely it was not Mason. He had gone to Jamaica. Perhaps it was Carter, come to check his bandages or…perhaps it was Briggs with some news of…

Maria reentered silently, the glass and tray rattling slightly. Pilot, who lay on the rug, leapt up and greeted the maid. With a whisper of command to the dog to lie down, the servant came and placed the tray beside the master. He reached out his hand for the glass and took it from Maria's quivering hand.

Pilot wagged his tale against the floor—banging, banging, banging, in happy greeting.

"What is the matter Maria?"

'Maria' hushed the dog with "down Pilot."

Rochester's hand froze as he lifted the glass to his lips. Then after drinking, he set the glass on the table and with a disturbed expression asked out into the darkness,

"This…This is you Mary, is it not?"

In reply, a gentle, quiet and beloved voice answered back: "Mary is in the kitchen."


	17. Chapter 17 The Last and First Glimpse

"You are altogether human, Jane? You are certain of that? You are here?" He asked again and again as they ate together at the table. With a happy sigh, she reached her fore finger out and tapped his nose playfully.

"How much of my pinchings and pokings will satisfy you sir? I am here, and I will not leave you."

He caught her hand and kissed it softly, but with a desperate look crossing his face.

"I cannot believe it. I must be dreaming. My heart is too full of hope and gratitude for this not to be a dream."

She smiled and came from her chair to his side, settling on his knee. Sliding her arms about his neck, she kissed his burnt eye lids and cheek; with a tender hand, her fingers traced his lips.

"Edward. Edward." She whispered. He gave a contented sigh, letting her voice, her touch, spill over him in restoration.

In a piquant little tone, she remarked on his stern face:

"Your eyebrows are all scorched sir. I have a salve that I will put on them. They will soon be as broad and black as ever. That way, when I make you cross, your brow will be fine, stern, and dramatic all at once."

"How could you ever make me cross, Jane?"

She laughed, "O I could. You make me cross sometimes. And I am sure it will be so."

"I cannot think of it!" He affirmed.

With a wicked look, she began to withdraw from his arms, coolly moving away. He sought her back quickly.

"No, Jane! Stay with me! O you, changeling!"

"There!" She laughed heartily. "Now you are somewhat cross! See now, you shall have to be patient of me."

"As you must be of me Jane?"

"Certainly."

He smiled, and then laughed—a deep hearty laugh. And she laughed with him.

A happy silence filled the room. She stroked a strand of his dark hair.

"Did you venture outside today sir? Before the rains came?"

"No. No, I rarely step outside the house. I rarely leave even this room." He hung his head.

"Ah. But you lie, sir. For I saw you as I came up the drive."

"You saw me?" He seemed aghast. "Well, what a hideous sight and surprise it must have been, an old hobbling blind man, scarcely able to tread beyond his own door." He grew dark with his words.

She embraced him, whispering with a teasing voice,

"It was no such thing. I saw _you, my beloved master._ To be sure if you saw me, you would think twice before letting me in your door."

"Why?"

"I have been traveling sir, these past few days, and I am sure I resemble some wild animal from the moors."

"No, indeed!" He smiled and scoffed. "Jane, you were ever a beauty! Even if I were to imagine you as some wild, muddy, carefree nymph, you would be …beautiful."

"A muddy nymph sir? Surely you would not wish me to come to you with all the woods and fields on my garb?"

"If you would come to me at all, sprite, I should not care what you looked like!" He laughed.

"Well," she said, quietly. "I am come."

He reached his good hand up to touch her cheek, warm from the fire.

"Jane. I have something to show you."

Rochester rose from his chair at the dining table and setting her down, groped about to find the fairy's slim hand.

"Will you come with me?" He asked when he had found her warm fingers with his own. With a quiet air, she kissed his hand in response.

"Of course I will. But where are we going? Are you, shaggy lion that you are, taking me to the underground or to your lair?" Her voice teased him merrily. He gave a soft chuckle,

"No, my darling. Something better."

He did not require her to lead him for he knew his way around the old damp house. Instead, he led her through the narrow passage away from the light of the hearth. Gripping her hand as if he feared she would run or slip away, he walked tentatively but with a steady progress into the dark. For a moment, Jane stiffened as the shadows made her blind. Rochester turned to her a moment, whispering,

"Don't be afraid Janet. This darkness won't harm you. I know the way."

She opened her eyes wide in the dark hallway, attempting to see. They stopped, and Rochester let go of her hand. For a moment, she felt cold and alone in the dark. Then, the jingling of keys sounded and the grinding of a lock being turned. She had heard this sound before.

_Jane, I want you to come with me to the North Tower. I have need of you. _

_The halls of Thornfield had been vividly black as they moved along the corridor and up the stairs, hand in hand, a candle as their guide—going to the attic, to the forbidden room._

Now, there was no guide.

Now, there was only darkness and the sound of a key opening a rusted lock.

_Snatching snarls had come from within the inner room. _

But here there was only silence. The night was not sinister against them.

The door opened, and Rochester grasped Jane's hand, leading her into the room.

"What is it, Edward?"

He did not answer. Instead, he once more removed his hand and fumbled in his pocket for a match.

"Where is a candle Jane?"

"I cannot see…" She felt about. "Ah. Here is one."

"Thank you." He struck the match and found the wick.

"Is it lighting Jane?"

"Yes."

"Good, now, there should be something on the desk over there that you will recognize. Take the candle with you."

She walked over to the desk. A large scorched portfolio lay there, its edges licked with black and grey ash. With suddenly trembling hands, she opened it to view what lay inside.

"Edward!" she gasped. "My…my paintings…Edward! You…saved them."

They were all there: her seascape, the evenstar, the iceberg, the self-portraits, the bride. Even "Blanche" was among them.

She turned to him, tears welling up. He stood unseeing in the flickering candle light, and held out one hand to her.

"Yes. I…" he started to reply. But his voice stopped at the rushing sound of her skirts. She flew at him in gratitude and love, throwing her arms about him.

"O how? How did you find them?"

He said nothing, his face pressing against her collarbone.

Then, with a trembling whisper, he said

"I saved them after she …after she jumped from the battlements. I was on my way down again and could not leave them. I took them from your burning room."

_You fool, she thought. If you had left them, you should have made it out sooner and perhaps without injury. Why? _

"Why, Edward?" She asked fondly.

"Because…because your paintings…they are you…even though I cannot see them any longer…They are you, and I could not let them be swallowed up in flames. Never! Never!"

--

The great ship rocked and careened into the harbor, the shore crowded with onlookers. A smell, perhaps the smell of spice, lifted off the land and the water, caressing the ship in a tentative welcome. The shore was a haze of colors and dust. At the bow, St. John surveyed the coast, his icy azure eyes lighting with an excitement. His lips and hands trembled white as the waves rolled the ship closer, closer, closer to India. He could see the faces of the people scrambling about in the port. So many. And he was alone.

When the ship docked and its passengers alighted, St. John had made his way through the packed, clamorous streets, seeking the mission house. With a carefully trained tongue, he asked some locals for directions in their own language. They obliged him by quickly pointing the way then returning to their work.

All his senses awoke in that place. The air, the dust, the earth mingled in searing potency.

Once he had found the meager little mission, and settled in his small room, he sat still on his cot for a full half hour, thinking.

_I am here. I am here. I shall never return. Never. God's work. Must be done. Here is now home. Here. _

At length, he absently opened his trunk. He did not unpack directly. Rather, he pulled out a crumbled piece of paper from the depths of his belongings. Gently, he turned the paper in his fingers, staring at the image that was painted there.

_Rose of the World. Rosamond._

A faint smile crept across his face as he gazed at the dainty portrait. She seemed to smile only for him in that picture—fondly, honestly and truly. The initials of the artist—J.E.—were scratched into the corner.

"Ah. Rosamond!" He kissed the watercolor lips. "Such a rose would perish here. But you, you will stay with me, when others have left. You shall stay always."

Closing his eyes against bitter tears, he pressed the image to his heart, bent over in emotion.

"My heart! My heart! Father in heaven!" His voice scratched out, a sob caught there. The ice had melted.

--

They entered the woods as they went homewards. All was changed. And all was glorious. The sun glimmered through the branches, blessing them with its warm rays. Together, they trod the path back to Ferndean in a blissful almost holy silence. They were promised to each other at last—with no fear or doubt or shadow. As they walked, Jane felt her inward core rising up to God in gratitude, in joy. So much so that she paused in her step, turned her betrothed to her, and threw her arms about him.

"Edward! Edward! You shall be mine! And I will be yours!"

"At last." He rejoined.

As she released him, her eyes glanced about them at the cascades of golden sunlight that poured in through the emerald branches.

"Edward!" She exclaimed. "We are walking in a watercolor painting!"

--

How can a story such as this end? When does a story ever finish? I think it never does. For while one story ends, another begins.

So it is here.

I might tell innumerable tales of these lovers.

I might say nothing at all.

I might end with a suitable epitaph.

Or I might even articulate, with a firm resolution, the light and shadow of their fate and happiness of life together.

But these things I will not do.

Instead, I will paint one more picture.

Years, it is not for me to say how many, passed by. One day, a woman walked from her house in the woods out to the distant moors. No one walked with her. She had dressed in black with a black veil over her face. In her arms, she carried an easel, painting tools, and single canvas. Those who saw her pass by were not surprised to see her walk with such burdens. Many had seen her and her husband walk out to the moors together—she to paint, he to listen to the music of her brush as the wind blew about them.

But today, she walked alone, with a slow and heavy gait. Perhaps it was her age or that the easel had grown heavy with the distance, but her pace was decidedly slower than her usual sprightly gait.

A puff of wind lifted her veil from her head, causing it to float for a moment above her face. The white and silver of her hair caught the sunlight as she walked. But soon, the veil fell again, and her face clouded over.

A farm boy, who was gathering peat from the rain-sodden ground, glanced up at the approaching elderly lady. She did not notice him. Instead, cautiously she climbed the stile, and carried on in her way, over the moor towards the cliffs and open air. For a moment, he watched her quiet but resolute form fade into the purple and green of the moors. Then, he returned to his work, forgetting quite all about her.

A few days later, a chaotic search was taking place in the little community. Mrs. Rochester, a recent widow, of Ferndean had gone missing from her home. In a frantic state, her children had left their own families and come to search for their mother. But for days, no one could find anything.

At last, they found a trace of her. Or rather, they found the easel, tools, and canvas perched upon a high, rich green heath. The artist was nowhere to be found.

However, if you looked ever so closely at the painting, you would have seen that the artist had painted into that wild landscape, two figures, one tall and dark, the other, small and grey.

On the canvas, they walked away from the world, arm in arm, leaning on each other, their trappings and clothes billowing out behind them. They left no more trace than that.

**A sincere thanks to those who read/ read-and-reviewed my story. **

**Yours,**

**Sara (Janefaerie)**


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